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  

beneath you,

and you will note the clean
machinations                              of knowing something            

to be true.