In pictures:

                        the pockmarked plane 
                             a landing to stand on, 
cloud drapes and many moons

                                                              beneath me. 
       I wish I was made of something lighter,

                                                                              so that I could float.
My dreams recall in phases:
       in one, I was vagabond and heading

                                                                              for Neptune. 
                                   I had few possessions. 
       In a supernova, 
                       the Big Dipper broke.
Lying down once on a plateau,
                 spacetime swirling and stellar remnants
                                                                   pulling in a collapse,
       I arched my back

                                                    drinking in the light-years,

       face tilted up,
                           my body a thin graft,

                                                                                      pliable.
Rim around a planetary ring, I gather

                                  my moonlets with me,
       horizon to distance in orbit,
                                    reconsidering infinity.
       In the dive of meridian, I am a
                           galaxy of want,
               nebula pluming 
       the deep space

                                 blushed.
If you move along the light in a straight line,
                                                 you will       reach a point 
                                         where nothing suspends 
       you

                        except

                            your own gravity.
       Giving as an act

       of surrender, saying:
                                        I want this yours.
       The body is a caldera calling.