What's left is a constellation
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what’s left is a constellation you can see
expanding across the ceiling caught in the pull of different forces train—snow—swan—necklace—root—pond a blast of winter spinning at its heart aphid—sex—island—olive—start—hum the attraction between bodies slowly giving way until everything appears in retrograde or retreat blithe—dream—tropic—ox—study—day & there is nothing to be done not in the offices of prayer not in the poses you find in workbooks slate—carnation—father—fall—breach—rag you can only lie across your narrow bed & watch the satellites begin to burn stars forming shapes you already knew dimming as they near the ends of light please—always—gulf—river—guitar—wait but you can still see you can always see it there the outline of what’s left as it keeps its word a faint map to other worlds you built once when the only law you loved was gravity distant—wish—camera—purple—sun— |
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Jeremy Allan Hawkins is the author of A Clean Edge, selected by Richard Siken as winner of the 2016 BOAAT Chapbook Contest. His poetry has appeared in Best New Poets 2016, the extended program of the 2018 Venice Biennale di Architettura, and the inaugural 2018 edition of the Rencontre Mondiale de la Poésie, as well as literary journals in the United States and Europe. He lives in France, where he has recently launched the Slight Dérive Reading Series.