Venus

She is mooring of a far-flung kind.

starAt 2:46 in the morning she breaks clear from behind black cutouts of maple and elm. The room is black; the sky, a slate gray wash of preparation. Suddenly she is there, wearing that crown, spikey and star-white, and the eastern sky is hers. A stunning appearance. I realize I have been waiting. I shift my head on the pillow, bringing her to the right angle of the lowermost windowpane. I want to see where she goes, again, and at what angle, again, and how quickly she moves, again. I do not tire of this.

She trails Jupiter by only two hours along the planetary elliptical that, here, climbs at forty-five degrees. I use the black rectangle of window as reference, like high school geometry. She takes off, sliding up to the right, shot out of the sun’s memory and reflecting that light. Here and there, she disappears behind a grille, trailing that gauzy hem of light. She blinks out. A powerful tease.

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