Pa pointed out to me, for the hundredth time tonight
the way the ladle leads to a dirt-red bullet of light.
Squint skyward and listen —
loving him, we move within his borders:
just asterisms in the stars’ set order.
We could stand for a century,
with our heads cocked,
in the broad daylight, at this thing:
landlocked in bodies that don’t keep —
dumbstruck with the sweetness of being,
till we don’t be.
Told: take this.