The New Mexico sky is alive,
redder than a child’s wagon on a dusty front lawn
and the stars blink like forgotten Christmas lightswhile constellations shift, dissatisfied with their placements, sending ripples through mythology with every new shape they make.

We have blankets and enough hope among us
to keep the morning star burning above the far hills—
I am flanked by mountainous profiles;
the crag of a nose, the devastating valley of a lip.

We are wondering if someone out there could read our thoughts
if someone would take an interest in what puts our bodies together.
Misguided, we gaze upward.

It’s crazy to believe we’re alone in the universe, someone says,
and I smile into my shoulder, considering,
of all things,
space:

the starry unknown
between fingers and words.