There was no one to be seen on the moon
i want those laughing golden stars
to carry you from dawn to dusk
to be congruent in all our corresponding angles
So now I bring you back from ashes, re-form your small waist, scarred hands, long spine from dust,
please lay down and be my xylophone skeletons
when you start a car, you put the devil into the devil and turn it
an empty rum bottle in the backseat
I took to yelling — I’m only divorced five hours since lunch
wondering where mosquito ghosts would go
remembering us — a pair of crows, like discovered lovers,
breaking against an imprint of stars on the rocks that rock in the sway of cooling planets and tides