Because we cannot take these bodies into heaven,

we must ground them here in the arable of

afterglow.
Tooth and hair, sweat and musk.

Constellations to stardust – 
I remember you.

I re-member you.
Here, hold still, here is the crux of it,

the point of entry, or the continental drift.
Let me taste in turn the holy stations:
             shoulder          shoulder

                              mouth

                              south
centres of pilgrimage,

exalted in perfect equilibrium,
and save for last that

   sun-drunk supernova,

conflagration

 within your ribs.