1.
Tonight, I trace figures on the frosted windowpane
like fluid lines of cursive
stenciled by the blade of a dancer’s skate.
Or like the stars outside giving shape
to the formlessness that surrounds them.
Their rhythm, shaped by darkness, patterns the sky.
For ten billion years, twisting
even as they’re held
in a single spot in the universe.

For Jamie Moore

I have to believe even your death was graceful.
That you lifted yourself into the backseat
effortlessly as your feet in first position raised onto pointe,
toes careful not to disturb the gear set in park.
That you crawled over the empty prescription bottles
to enter the trunk through the rear, folded yourself there,
wrapped your body around the blackness like a partner
who made you weightless in that perfect last ascent
before the stage went dark, before the curtain dropped.