does the bitter cold of dusk
grip you so? can you hear
the last lunar sliver call out to us?
she is whistling, softly

we are under the same stars
they wrap us up
in the threads of their
constellations

our eyes unfocus into
dizzy shotgun skies: above
us they breathe, pulsing
to the pattern of our love,

they pull me toward you
with miles of string
faintly lighting
my way home