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Poem: Constellations 

Orion’s belt shines in three-point precision
as we huddle, eyes raised,
in the frigid, crystalline air.
Even the Pleiades have shed
their hazy filaments, rejoined
the company of breathing lights.

Clearness is not about seeing:
I want to lie with you—folded,
silent, barely sleeping.  I want
the glow of meteors to course
though our veins. I want the slow
reflected glory of light years
to extend our time.

Hold me again, as on a February night
by Provincetown harbor,
fill the sky with Latin names,
animal heads, gods and ghosts.
Undress me with assurance,
make the surface of my skin
a celestial map,
one unknown sun—

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Ann Bookman.


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