what if we were constellations instead?

 

the fluid bearing of a
leisurely moon
lands a pulsing 
kiss when the atmosphere 
allows it, wants it.

what are your coordinates
when the current
sings through and the
tight ranks of an arduous
life are loosened by the lips?

for this moment, indulge in being
alone, finding infinite purity in gazing
at the phosphorous 
trails left by lingering
stars.

confront the restless flesh
with articulation and
faith and silently harbor fears in
the backwaters
so that they sink forever.

consider: what if we were constellations instead?
great, luminous, alchemic
heroes to the mortals
of Earth and our praises
were sung?

what would we show them,
what would they
spy in us, all the way
up there in our
dark, daunting expanse?

your name surely would be in
the mouths of those
you've not yet kissed,
and expeditions would be
mounted to seek your hidden eyes,

hoping that you would look
down upon them, that you
would cast on their colonies
some sign of incalculable 
hope and joy, salvation even.

age is full of mists and
the fleetly moving fog of time;
it levels the sands and
cracks the skin into unidentified
sacred stones.

the years go away and
come back unsalted.
yet they ratify love
with a beautiful virtue
that affords you nostalgic

aromas - like the
scent of rain or the
scent of a child's
flesh or the scent of
distant lover on a horizon.

what has happened
remains, quivering -
a ripple of the touch
by indomitable fingers
or a subtle breath.

what will happen
remains to be eaten,
devoured, and made into
dew or soil or atoms
that spread out beyond.

so long as you hold
it all on the tongue, let
it dissolve, and
swallow the sigh
of all that was, you will endure.

there is no conspiracy 
without you, no hands
on the clock that are not
your own, and the malignancy
of age is just a myth.

consider: what if we were constellations instead?
to be seen by them by looking
upward, outward, in
astonished reverence for what we
offer, and not what we fear,
for that is their best view and ours.