In America, anything can be haunted
the way a shooting
 
star is really just a burning
up
 
So you gather all your little moons around you, give them names
 
at once on-brand and whimsical, Boone, say, or Calliope.
 
Then you make a constellation of yourself, scattered
so they will always know
 
where to find you.
 
In the event of thermonuclear fusion please remember that all time is viscous
and infinite. Moments, like trends, repeat
 
ad nauseum, the necklace that looks
like a tattoo that looks
like a necklace, and don’t you dare
 
ask who wore it better, the sun
or the moon, that deep
lunation, the crescent
in the spyglass you
 
hold at the edge
of the boat, sky ablaze
 
from volcanic ash.
 
You are witnessing the lyric thou.
You are looking at a human man’s old-timey underpants.
 
You are asking the stars to be, as it were,
like us, and the stars comply, all dust
 
and eggshells. Don’t ask what eternity
indicates when our hands are this close
 
to touching. Don’t impulse-buy
chewing gum and call it intimacy
 
when this is an elegy
for the negative
space of your body, just waiting your turn,
a little spit
 
on the thumb you used to turn the pages