Bruce Bond Constellation

So many night since the final night,
so many years between these words
and a motel breezeway in the desert,
overhead a body sketched against
the black, its eyes nailed with tiny fires.
It's there I took the aim of your arm
at a dead star in a parking lot of stars.
What stitches light to light is the same
strong thread that pulls them apart.
Their distance makes me smaller.
Once it seemed all my gods were dying.
Their very wounding gave them flesh.
In the belt of the Hunter, the ruby giant,
the sharpest, the closest to extinction,
the blood stone that jeweled the sword.
As you once said, there is no end
of the world's world. And then
you pointed to a space outside the lines
of any storied constellation.
You meant it as charity, though it scared me
to gaze at something as vast as nothing
at all. Who's to say my picture of you
is any less a mythy nothingness that speaks,
a drink to chase the bitter shadows,
the sky's spare change I give myself.
Still these days I cannot stop the great
collapse of stick men I lifted into place.
I cannot sleep save in the dust clouds
where evening's horses fall, stagger, sputter
like broken toys. Whose child are you now.
Do you go out as a gift made new
in the hands, if you can call them hands,
in the pinned eyes of someone else's gods—
I named them as a boy—of beasts,
of heroes, of the bewildered stranger.

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