is meaningless. Half
my lines converge into
lies. Perhaps I love you.
Perhaps I’ll never know.
I am trying to become
a student of myself,
the stars, their pretend
constellations. What
I see up there are daggers,
their staggering glints
of infinity, how star-gazing
is tracing all the ways
I may have never met you.

(originally published in Hiram Poetry Review, Spring 2022)