Have I ever told you that
Once, I reached my arm
In the sky, to try
To pinch a distant star—

I wanted to squeeze it,
To secrete its sweat
And watch it drop from light years away onto my tongue

Hope Is funny that way,
Because my mouth is (still) empty
And I am (still)
Pinching

Each time my tongue turns
White with thirst,
I justify
A reason why it didn’t work

Maybe I didn’t pinch hard enough;
maybe you’ve never been there—
You live on a different star.
Aching, I keep my arm raised

But I can’t lay back all day,
So I work on blue prints
For telescopes, but
never spaceships.

Say I found you. What, then,
Could I say? What before
You blind me, and burn me?
Yet, hope is funny that way.

Strange that I reach out but withdrawal
before contact.

And peculiar, too, that I Both want you
and want me dead before I get you

That I’d prefer the blank cosmos
Over extra-terrestrial communication.