Silver moon, Sirius
below. And there, Betelgeuse
winks the far black red.

Jesse breathes easy beside hot water.

Moonlight slides down the dark sky,
covers him and he lets it. Pale
Krishna blue irradiates his skin.

“I’m getting a pale, Wyatt.”
Growing older, bluer by the minute.
Faint smell of chlorine.

Moonlight smells of earth,
hot at the root.
We let it.

Steam from the hot tub exhales in clouds
toward stars. How sparkly the stars,
the midnight blue dark, the slight
blue glow shimmering off his body.

And how clear his thought,
it makes the night clear.
“Wyatt, the Racing Car Constellation!
The Man in the moon is the driver,
that bright star underneath,
the rear wheel, and that blue star, way
over there, that’s
the front wheel.”

Dog star patches out,
drags a quick quarter
through Orion to the left toe
of where blue Rigel
used to be.

I hunt, I hunt
a response,
all my adult knowledge
constellated, wheeling
around my head.

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