I do not believe the ancients—
the constellations look like nothing at all.

See how their light scatters itself
across the sky, not bright

enough to guide us anywhere?
And the avenue of trees, leaking

their dark inks, are shapes I can't identify.
The night is too inconstant, a constant

injury, alchemical moonlight
changing my body from lead to silver,

silver to lead. I lie
uncovered on the bed, unmoved

by the love you left, bad dreams,
bad night ahead. All summer

you held me to your chest:
It's the heat, you said, accounting

for our sleeplessness, so that
touch became metaphor for what kept us

separate. Our lives construct
themselves out of the lie of pain.

I lied when I sent you away.
To call your name would be another lie.