DRAWN

In the hushed and forgiving silence
after a snow fall, distant voices
sound like they’re right in your ear;
they ride from shoal to shoal.
Even the abandoned, graffiti-glyphed public swimming pool can seem
like an inverted cathedral, a bowl of hope. The street lights saucer out, the sky
is mute with mist. But I know
the constellations still burn above.
One of them an archer, bow drawn,
eyes on his prey, and his arrow never to hit.
We pulled him that way out of the sky, stitch by stitch. Trillions of miles drawn
in one hushed breath.