june

sitting on a starry night
high above my windows
watching all those stars
quietly go round.

now how often did i sit on the hill
on the green or grassy buena vista
looking up the tired and trite signs
of centuries of yore.

beam me up, antares!
my guiding light of dusk
and wrestle with my loved one
for the privilege of blood.

beat me up, polaris!
you fixest of the suns
and cure me from my gaze
straight into his eyes.

and yet, remembered is the order
the lines so well redrawn
the meaning once so certain
is quickly now withdrawn

did i see his smile shining
painted by arcturus?
did i see his hands running
on my chest, or vega?

little by little
the lonely stars
fancy being my lover
at least a portrait.

who needs the hunter
when i am no more prey;
who needs the scorpion
when i was yet stung;
who needs the lyre
when love was sung
a million times before?

who wants the eagle
if my thoughts can fly;
who wants the twins
where two is one;
who wants the river
when all is gone
that flowed one night before?

little by little
the glorious stars
dance along together
a hundred brand new signs.

and while i smile
the whirling balls of fire
hum along about
coordinates of love