Adam Jon

You’re more the same,
unchanged, unaged in your celestial transit.

I am unfamiliar to my younger self,
ripened and bearded,
a crucible, a failure of trajectory,
and there’s no direction named
for the way I look to you.

Pieces of me remain, still:
I still stutter,
wake to watch thunderstorms,
sip water from the tap
and stare out my window,
water over my lips and beard,
losing myself in the purple night sky.

There’s too much spinning now,
an axis I do not understand.
Andromeda—or is it Milky Way—
spins our local group,
intertwining.

I still can’t comprehend we crash but never touch;
I get no sleep some nights.

Our two moons are getting smaller,
metered as if no one would notice,
unlike plane crashes, new chairs,
goodbyes.

I’m less scared of your now-static self.
It’s me.
So, I send signals with the lights on my porch.

I still see stars that burn long,
unaware of their own death.
Stars will eat their twin
or spin themselves apart—
centrifugal suicide.

Don’t look down or you’ll be a pillar of salt.
You’ll be a pillar of salt.