The AstronautS

Two-hundred-fifty-two-thousand miles

Minus the span from your swollen heart

To the silhouettes your fingers make
In the soft light of this bloom-blush moon;

That value is the reach of my love.

I do my dreaming now with wide eyes
But I still lie down each night when you do,

After the alpenglow quits the mount

And those western seaboard beacons flare.

Are there blossoms tangled in your braid?

I know sometimes you braid the moonlight;

I move to eclipse Los Angeles.

There's a wind-thrown tree in Joshua Park

Held aloft by the one beside it
And its dry bones still bear hammock scars.

In the new earth dark I see these, too:

Berkeley erubescent for the fog
And Cherry's headstone drenched with dewfall.

Ten meters per second per second

Whether clothed in ice or otherwise.

I hope he cradles your innocence,
That when he sees you reach he moves near

And his breath on your cheek pledges Spring.

We endure from final frost to first;

Sometimes fruit falls to preempt the cold.

She's been teaching me how to find you

And when she reaches I move near
So we might share a common prospect.

There are blossoms braided in her hair

And her breath on my cheek is true Spring.

We count three beacons north to Portland 

Then she shows me how to span the dark:

You'll wake to petals on your pillow.
I can hear the small sounds of her smile;

Now she's making angels in the regolith.

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