They turn the street lights off on my road at twelve. They never used to – its a new thing. Now I can see the stars at night.

Constellations

I’d reach out
with open hands,
find my fingers
touching the edges
of worn, warm shapes.

Traditional names;
we all draw on same
knowledge, settled
in that shared game
of dot-to-dots.

Like tracing lines
between specks of dirt
on a mirror; all
we achieve are images
of ourselves.