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At night in the meadow
we lay the blanket down and fall back
to watch the stars in their endless migration
find the unyielding geometry of distance.
The tall grass of autumn
does not tease our faces,
nor does the dew wet our skin.
Out here, we remain untouched, you and I,
wheeling in our own orbits
of intractable light years
and the lambent echoes of stars long dead
that burned and burned, like we did.
There should be comfort in the gravity
that pins me to this blanket
like a butterfly, wings ashen under
the airless glass of this hurtling universe;
there should be comfort in knowing
I don’t have to hold on.