I believe Orion
lost at love. Got shot
with his own arrow.
He was very clear tonight,
though I don’t remember who he loved.
Betelgeuse and Rigel
are twin ends of the same spectrum,
red and blue, respectively,
Rigel far hotter
than Betelgeuse.
The blue flame is what
they always tell you not
to touch.
I am a complete virgin,
a celestial gesture.
The sky displays
some sort of connection,
the lines are drawn in books.
Perhaps I am mad
and everything is too long.
Binary stars
die like any other star.
One explodes, to make
black holes so grief-stricken
they can’t let go.
They absorb you,
in order of importance:
essays, a job, sandwiches.
Cold air freezes
the little sparkling objects
they call tears
and holds them there
for you to gaze on.
For there are hand-drawn stars
in Orion, as if someone made
him up, doodling, on the back
of an envelope.
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