To connect to some constellation,
we curve toward our angle of light,
intwine our limbs
across any lattice we find.
For only in reflection
are lines straight,
a simple step followed by another,
where all our lies are justified
into sclerotic prison walls.
We turn our faces to the sun
like mirrors tracking distant stars,
where there are no explanations
for our desires, where absences
appear unanticipated
like the sadness of angels
momentarily entering a room
only to leave without speaking.
How do we know
to stand before the door
knowing it will open?
How do we know
the door is there?
(June 17, 2021)
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