Away from the city I see Alcyone and all the bright things I didn't know existed, and girl have I missed it. At the pediatrician's office my mother told me there was nothing the doctor could do about my anxious palms, no salve to cover it, just keep rubbing them on my jeans and raise my hand in class with blue dye on the sides where other kids have graphite but you say you like the way my hands shine. Our fingers, intertwined.
This place, its color saturates when you return to it. A cosmic ghost playing a cosmic joke, waking up, propping himself lazily on an elbow in bed, casually sliding up the brightness of the universe like he does it every day, like he was born to it, when really we were.