Stars

I have caught your Arcturus shaped tongue,
familiarised
myself with the taste,
drenched in Sun,
shadow eradicated
remains -

you and I,
no ounce left

equated to gases,
quite burst,
where shadows and polaris dine

before the holy death.

And I
will catch someone new,
like bronchitis,
tie them up,

make a fresh Dogstar,

while you're out there,
legs and arms
hailing light,
sunning in dark.

From late June to December
I'll see you,
first that lined mouth,
then lived mind,
stage a poker face,
over it
when I'm haunted,
still under it.

The wolf isn't howling into a polluted sky,
isn't crying on a loose, jealous Moon,
he's moved.
We won't violently collide
when we find each other
instead
present
self control hemmed by age,
fading.
Your eyes'll resist gravity
when I'm on the way out.
I'll float
my hand into his hand,
play night sonatas
in the skullbox.

When
Moon rises,
lonely, envisioning perfect
desire
in imperfect affairs,
you'll be there,
your Arcturus tongue
tattooing
star signs on country glow
and taking a one way plane
back to the Sun.