Spying

on a hand that planted my scars in the night sky,

I wonder where it hides, the mischievous author,

the troublemaker, the living mirror that reveals

past consternation; I count them, I count them,

I imagine the hand that left them to sparkle

and become a constellation.

Crying in intergalactic winds, their voice

reminds me of agonizing beauty, skinned,

bleeding, raining in mermaid despair, as I

drink the onomatopoeia of wounded scarlet flesh

and wonder where it hides, the wit, the fever

the crazy wisdom that showed me all…

All that I cannot see, suddenly lights up

in the temple of my night that knows no boundary;

dancing sparkles of evidence float in the void

as I drink its fluidity, embrace it

and still wonder where the trickster hides:

the bare hand that placed the stars

to show me the way across the scarlit sky.