Feeling Synesthetic

Do not speak to the grass.
The grass will not remember you.

In bed, I count three freckles
on the bicep, four on the forearm,
four on the shoulder.
Only one of them is raised.

Constellations daring me
to leave the earth again.

Feeling synesthetic,
I drink purple from
a human mouth;

something shifts;

body to body;

a butcher accepts
that they will never become an archaeologist
and on the news
the first first-ever photograph
of a black hole;

I see it on my phone
four times before coffee.

On the way to the party
your Water Sign friend
changes their mind.

The darkest place I’ve found on earth:
tennis courts at night.
Starlight grains entering
the eyes, leaving
now, through the mouth.

Recollect dissecting
an owl pellet:

thin bones embracing
a twenty-five-cent ring.