I almost mistook the star for offered asylum. It's mostly from the weight of porcelain arms, thus I see how brittle veins are. As Breath on cool mornings — finely ground glass. The sun looks aged, and is pale. Walking the grounds of everything we buried in the sky because we thought this was the only way they could withstand time, so that later generations could discover the stories we had to tell: toys left out, the bones of our pets, the cities of dust I built in my grandfather's garage. Grand empires!
The relationship between meteors and the movements of water bugs. The way they stride across the surface writing nocturnes. The landscape trembles. Celestial maps. We laughed. We died. We sat on the hill where wolves howled. At the time of day the evening star stokes the city, therefore it shimmers. We were always just settling. Fated to retrograde affection. Still I run my hand along the tall grass. We created our own constellations in the water, in our words. A mythos of budding trees, grass, a toy car, the cracked mud where we upset our mothers. The relationship between headlights on a highway seen from a hilltop and how spiders weave the morning dew. We followed the trail of a slug until we looked to the western daughter, and there we laid down to sleep.