one star, three late night
windows of high-rise insomniacs
called Babe Ruth. Seen from the hill
behind the baseball field off Edinburgh Road.
urban orange glow of light pollution
spilling, perma-sunset backdrop of
gentrification, humming along the
black horizon where it is never dark
farm nights so dark you lost
your own body melting
into the room, ill-defined
edges. i am everything i perceive.
catalog the materials of our sky
and name them. flaming space junk ejected
into the void, transformers blown blue eerie, loud
cities on the horizon replace
dark swamp nights my mother whispers
’cassiopeia,’ and teaches me the stars while
the crickets sing something melancholy
to carry with me.
after the city storm and chaos candles
lighting dim chambers, stacked
i draw andromeda in the sky
and orion is tattooed on your wrist.