In America, anything can be haunted
the way a shooting
star is really just a burning
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