Constellation on Poplar Street

Ascending into the night, the plane passes over
your street: house lights scatter like stars

linked by imaginary lines, private myths seen
through a telescope, trying to divine mistakes

red-shifted as they recede into the past; mourn
the rain-shrouded year we lived in the same city

but never met; measure the arc of the earth
between us; draw a constellation of regret

in the condensation on the windows of your
apartment---old-lady furniture and rented piano

stacked with books, baked squash in the
refrigerator, out of coffee in the morning--

it's Olympus to me, and your body, pressed
against me in green pajamas, is a blessing.

By noon I stumble, drunk on kisses as full
as red wine. We feed each other figs,

and olives green and bitter as the sea; in yellow
candlelight we lie on our backs and draw

with our fingers lines on the sheen of our skin,
new constellations; beads of sweat glitter

like the lamps far below on the streets
of your city, wheeling in the dark like a galaxy.