by Gary Margolis

Thrown. Fallen.
From a bag.
Lost in space.
Last night. It was

the earth slipping
between us. Coin
of the realm. Discing
the sun. Shade’s

shadowing the moon.
More plum-red
than blood-like.
You asked me not to

wake you. In the middle
of the night. Morning’s
soon enough.
For the stars.

In love’s discarded
universe. Down there.
Ice-melting.
Among the spiking

buds. Bags and broken
mirrors. Reflecting
all we were. And are.
The in-betweenness.

Not knowing
when the next time is.
What’s left to be seen.
Leaving us. What you feel.

When I wave my hand
across your sleeping
face. With nothing else
to compare this to.

by Gary Margolis

You plan to be around
for the landing
of their astronaut. The asteroid

we ‘re hearing a lot about.
How it might hit or miss us.
If all goes right. Time is what it is

and was. And the space between us.
How we come to kiss.
Lean in to each other. As if

there was so little time left we have
to make the most and least of it.
Letting the moment pass.

As we often did. Letting love
escape its momentary pass.
Was it me or you who said

to look up to the moon?
And in that tilting stole a kiss.
Like a pool ball coming off

its rail, its cushion.
Toward its pocket destination.
In the pool room. The business

my father owned. Urging me
to work there, too. Forget writing
poems. Looking up to the night

sky. Those ricocheting planets.
I would want to tell him.
Even when I know I shouldn’t

just say it. Too sentimental,
I suppose, to write how much
I miss him. How glad I was

to brush down those felt tables.
The job he gave me. To feel
what it was to work. Prepare myself

for the other world.
For you, my love, coming this close
again.

by Gary Margolis

Whatever they’re doing on board, it’s left
for us to believe.
The shadows, the lights don’t give anything
away.

At this distance. We might want to think
we ‘re more like them.
Than meets our eyes. From over here.
Given half the chance, we’d wear

our evening wear.
Dine at the Captain’s table.
Feeling a touch uncomfortable.
Telling stories of our made-up lies.

Voyages. Somewhere beyond us.
Asked. We’d take a turn. On watch.
Looking out. Listening. Remembering
what it was one of us thought

they saw. That floating ghost
of a ship. Passing. Making passengers
of the wake we were.
We could have been.

If we could afford it. Above
decks. And not who we are.
Where we live. In love’s booked
dark and lovely steerage.

by Fred Wah

The nearest star over rocky neck

turned out to be a streetlamp

for Pindar’s Palace

buzzing deep sleep

so far into my sunken body

the landlord didn’t know

if I was dead or alive

or a man or a woman

      it’s true

Jack and I assured him

we wouldn’t burn down the place

I mean Palace

but the next day

he turned off the power at noon.