The desert was cold tonight.
A thin, orange moon
tilted on the western horizon,
and to the east, beneath Cassiopeia,
a satellite’s iridium flare
streaked southward.
I remembered
the smell of cocoa butter
and thought of your hair
bleached by a northern sun.
The compass you gave me
points always to Ultima Thule.
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1 comment:
This poem makes me long for a snowy Michigan winter evening. Cozy after a warm bath. I can almost see the Northern Lights.
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