Constellations

Sneakers hung from the telephone lines to make new constellations
and the concrete corridors bore silent witness
to my Sunday séance
alone and twisted like the charcoal drawings you left
scrawled alone on the boardwalk by the sea.

I watched a jet pass overhead
and thought about the time I slept in your closet.
Perhaps you knew I was there
but I think all you could see was the slow spin of the ceiling fan
making the air too smooth to think

--Oliver Riley