This is why light always falls
through the branches,
never over them.

This is why I find my way home
but still end up sliding
through the mud,
the rippling shadows,
the clumsiest nights.

This is why the same owls
perch in the same oak trees
and add new sore craters
to the moon just by hooting

While I sit in the grass
to count the stars
when I'm really adding up
all my mistakes,
connecting them to their failures,
and calling them constellations.

One takes Orion's belt,
Another the Scorpion's sting,
two hold hands and become mischievous twins
that walk away in triumph in the morning
after they finally learn how to break the dawn.

This is why the moon always
hitches a ride on my window
when I'm heading somewhere
that gives a nice view
of the edge of the world
because the clouds could only
carry it so far before losing breath
and breaking wispy bones.

This is why the roads collide
and I always find a situation
thick in undergrowth.

You'd think they'd have paths
blazed through them by now,
but they don't and never will.

So I stop here to watch
the sun rise,
the day swelling up
after the Scorpion crawls.
Orion surrenders his sword
and drops his belt
to let Perseus save Andromeda,
the twins strutting over the horizon,
connected, clever, pulsing bright.
And I still have enough stars left
to form another constellation.