Southern Cross

By | 1 December 2013

Because we cannot take these bodies into heaven,
we must ground them here in the arable of

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

centres of pilgrimage,
exalted in perfect equilibrium,

and save for last that
sun-drunk supernova,
within your ribs.

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