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Prelude To Stars
There is this—
what you forgot to say
when the moon pushed its fingernail
across the sky and you lay in bed
polishing your lover's thighs.
Or perhaps you said it,
outloud, in a wistful voice,
but it was lost to the thrum of frogs
currying the creek, or
the sibilant swish of cars
hurtling past on the highway.
We live, we die, we join dust of the stars.
One night you asked for a sign,
but there is no sign, only this place
called yearning. The bees feel it too. See them
hurrying home at sunset, pollen clasped
between their legs, compelled by a hidden
geometry of slanted light.
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