to find the sky, I had to dig
beneath the toppled aspen tree
whose rotting galaxies
birthed mycorrhizal suns
that flourished and senesced
and were reborn again
as small, pale constellations
on a salamander’s back.
the glossy black of her body
glistened like the moonlight
used to glisten on the vernal pools
of her youth before the weight
of all the heavens fell
and settled on her skin.
and when I held her in my hands,
it was a grubby-fingered kind of love.
I thought, how strange:
the stars are slippery,
the universe is small.