ode to every planet i will die without visitingi. kissing you is the closest i will ever come to space travel.
i know you are impossible to reach in this lifetime
but i reach my hands out, ad infinitum,
because if it’s true that you are god
and i can see you from my telescope
in the galaxy andromeda--
then when i look at you from here
what i am really seeing is you 2.5 million
years ago & i know i am doomed to always be
even this is enough.
ii. i have fled
that reminds me of your skin
hoping this will lead me back
but i didn't leave footprints
on the miles of treaded space between;
grief on an answering machinechemistry tells us
matter cannot be destroyed
from one form to another.
i heard you today
on old voicemails;
the voice that kisses
the boundaries of being,
screaming the conservation of the soul,
tells me you are here
even when you are not
it is only a sound.
i have remembered a plethora of them; searching
for the moments i can remember your nervous humming, your raucous prayers.
but i only know the staccato breaths of a starting engine
i have spoken sotto voce into the mouths of unripe girls
i hear lawnmowers screaming in yards they burned down to build a shopping mall
i fuck a boy to the sound of passing trains.
these are sounds to throw away, sounds i do not need
but your voice is not one of them
mourning you is a second language
and i am stumbling through sentences.
i don’t know the word for ‘goodbye’
so teach m
constellatinghis soul is a nomad and it never stays
but it stayed long enough
to count ambulance lights
as wishing stars,
while we count bruises as battle scars
and heartaches as entire worlds
his soul was a settler, once,
staying only for the
voices of doctors that smoothed
out the wrinkles
in the inevitable,
but he had to go.
now he wades in and out
of waters rolling like the tidal archs
of ferris wheels. you can hear him
in the final trill of beethoven's last opus,
find him waxing and waning
on moons we cannot hold in our hands.
no one can touch daytime
but he bends sunrays like
softened metal. he is there:
the energy inside a paintbrush,
the potential and actual.
he is the cinematic and the too real,
the quantum and indefinite.
he is machine guns and flowers,
opium and starlight. he does not
mourn the years
that were ripped away
because he is still here; he is
his soul is a nomad and it never stays
in one place, cycling