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).