Orion’s Wheel

….

We steal celestial moments,
thread our words through belt
loops touched only by
gods light years away.
We call names.

Fall apart.

Whistle and wait
for the echo of
our own syllables.

The stars are pin-prick cat prints
on construction paper,
and
somebody gnaws a moon
-ring in the black licorice
of this broken sky.

…
wordled.

 

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