1.

a child's
fingertips like 10 distant stars
reach toward me
lost
in perhaps. my inability

to use a sextant,
scrabbling round
to land you
on my H

to the sound of a choir
of freckles. i will lie
to you. how close i am
to earth! virtually
underground,
a white horse
chalked in blood.

have i failed to bring you
out of myself?
if i could love you
alone into me, i would.

i search the hands
to dig you out
with astrolabe,
to tend you right
through fiery hoops
as rain.

2.

rolodex of stars,
you have probably
already died
a thousand times over.
the light i see is only just
travelled here.

i wait in my plastic chair,
and write quiet essays
on bushido,
stuck in lists-
my two cold hands
like swans of ice.