All her other lives: ingratiating,
played beyond our window frames.
Frost caught between universes;
parallels cutting through supernovas,
not waiting for a bang.
Faster than that!
“Don’t write me at this address.”
I get it–her galaxy
skittering across the moonlit ice,
caroming from muffled laughing fires,
looking for the Horsehead Nebula
while we wait and buck our reins.
Parallels to parallels to where?
To all these campfires,
to carriages and restless hooves,
all the gracious calculus defining
moonlight traced on frosted panes?
She sees love scratch a figure eight,
embellished with a three-turn:
a lovely note on ice.
We watch and stamp and steam,
hamed to the night;
yet our breath never reaches her stars.
Gavin W Sisk