Body on an Island
It is between mosquito generations,
so we stand on the porch
and stargaze, like I always imagine
I do here on Fire Island but rarely can.
We point to Jupiter and Saturn
over the low canopy of holly and beach plum.
Mars is beneath our feet, on the dayside.
I miss the sweet malt of beer, how it brought everyone,
even the planets, closer. But was that real?
Without a drink, I’m afraid. I don’t want
to be boring. I tilt my head
and let the stars run down my throat.
If I look long enough I can convince myself
that I don’t really exist. That the universe
is everything and nothing, and so am I.