The Milky Way is not incandescent steam
nor is it divine milk that has escaped Heracles’ thirst
the universe is not deeper than the reflection on my window,
where the stars are doubled and Orion has the eyes of a poet
and a hunter, in his lap a horse upside down
and at his feet Seirios, the faithful dog.
The steps I take forward
won’t make me any younger,
for I have traveled so long
that I should be back in my womb,
in the first universe, in its infinity where I floated
tethered like an astronaut.
The crown of the sky is at an arm’s length,
even closer, and a step won’t take me forward, even if it
was reflected in the eyes of passers-by, and nothing
passes by, and the Milky Way, if anything,
is the path of your hair on the night’s sheet, the tangled
net of birth and death.