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