The Moon is a street corner telephone booth,
With broken bottles and stolen handprints.
I dial the craters one cruel evening, when
My isolation has made Earth’s rotation
Slow, but connect to silence. Still,
I share my private griefs, and useless
Hopes of one day finding you
Beneath Mercury’s retrograde,
Chin to the stars, no longer too young
Or afraid nor drifting quietly away
From the constellation we once shared.
Like broken satellites or twin
Arrows shot by Orion:
At the mercy of gravity, we curve
Into each others’ shapes, any which
You would take now, coming
To rest on the ground where
No more falling is allowed,
Or even possible; where
Our zenith can be the same,
Where nothing can be lost
Until the Moon’s silver wires
Tear over the horizon.