We used to lie in the bed of your Ford
on new moon nights. You plotted your course
along the arch of my back, pledged Orion
and the Northern Crown with a warm-mouthed
wheatfield promise. Yours was a voice
as soft as the evening whisper of grass
against the chassis, as alluring as the arrival
of the morning star. We loved

in phases. Twenty years and two Fords later
your kiss refracts across the back of my hand
as I lie, cold-backed, in your bed through the season
where nights are longer than days. We are
a supernova. I scan the city sky for Serpens and Taurus,
knowing now that light outlasts the heat.

March 2002