Stargazing on a Humboldt Hill
There are sharp stones pressing constellations --
Pretty, pin-prick dimples -- into the soft
Skin of your ass. You pray, mouth shapes, for grace.
Your thigh-back blood smears some on the gravel.
High-beams from passing rigs anoint your neck
In kaleidoscope gold which settles there
Like dew-fall does then trickles 'tween your blades.
You inhale quick then purse your lips; cold teeth.
We climbed this hill to sin like kids wicked
But now you've got the blanket on your lap.
I point high: "Those stars are dead or dying."
And in response, but not to me, you sigh:
"So that my life may be only a radiance of yours,
I best be phosphorescent."