there is a space
where his belly peaks
the sweep of my back:
here is where galaxies are born.
his constellations
burn through my ashen skies.
he is the sun to my moon,
the silent serene,
the waters on Mars
and the grainy photos beamed.
once, the universe collapsed
and then we, too.
there is peace in rhythmic space,
and we dare not now disturb it.
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