moon’s waning crescent like

a grandmother’s toothless smile,

the man at the bar who’s having another,

a sailor writing love letters to a woman

he’s just said goodbye to.
the sky connects my father and me.

orion watches us watch him on a
 
september night, the smell of hay

reaches our nostrils, smelling something

so close and looking at something

very, very far away how the senses

bring worlds together how
we fill our houses with plants we

buy telescopes and microscopes to

feel closer to things we can never

touch. 
i can never touch you, you
 
are too hot for my delicate fingers.