I don’t talk to my family because I rent a studio furnished
with a telescope that pivots between Venus
and a window in which a man undresses.
Every few weeks, new clothes, new shades (i.e. Diana,
then just the arrows, the quiver,
the strange game one moon likes to play
where I become bioluminescent,
a swan, and thrash
to curve and break
the reflection of his face
in the river’s slick body).