To the Observatory
Keep a sharp eye
as we cut through grass to the observatory.
Real science will save us
from our guesswork.
We’ll watch the traffic of stars pulse
over the span
of several nights, compare
their whorl to your fingertips,
to the sluice
of cinnamon in coffee, to this
summer spreading over the last.
We’ll pin single names
to ladies flayed in velvet,
soft wings, so we’ll know what to call them.
We’ll gather fruits
and make them how we want them.
Tomatoes will burst in the skillet, shedding
their sweet skins.
We will note the world
is warming up to our asking
if we should stay whole
or break like this.
There is no atonement for how far
we have come, except
perhaps to keep going.
Hovering like gods, then, we’ll keep pushing
until the flesh relents.
When we take to the floorboards,
you will feel me unravel
and you will note the clean
machinations of knowing something
to be true.