It is a chill metallic passion even on
hot, humid July nights. For it seems
the stars are substantially cold as I gaze,
eye to polished eye, entwined in black
night clothes, (the wrinkled sheets of pure
space-time, so remote from diurnal time).
There, nothing appears to stray from its
sidereal gait so I must transport myself far,
either by sight or imagination, when needing
to know; “Is it the same passion which fuses
flesh, that births the stars, makes us prodigals
of vision: this light, our motion, the cosmic
wind; all that energy and ardor, both up
and around …outside my open window,
that also swirls inside, allows us some
share of each other’s gravity?”
The sun mobilizes us by day and then
I think of warmer lovers, the sweetness of
flowers and perfume, real arms and legs
ready for embrace. Human shapes make such
a comfortable fit when eyes are pressed
in shadow and light is eclipsed behind
a shoulder or in the soft valley between
breasts. But this night I drowse against my
telescope, cheek to cold cheek, supported
by three sturdy feet in rubber slippers,
while her flawless glass eye attempts to show
me everything. She may be a bit of an
exhibitionist, a freak, a wanton, but I am
thankful for her when flesh runs dry, and
we bathe together in this milky river
above our heads.
To be published in Richard Pflum’s forthcoming chapbook, “The Haunted Refrigerator and Other Poems” by Puddinghouse Press
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.