From a hill in the south
if night is clear, our naked eyes
detect faintly a cloud straddling
Mensa and Dorado.
We call it Magellan, and feel bold.
We glimpse the brilliant inflection—
spark glints orange.
What cataclysmic creation is forged
amongst huddled gods?
Most active starburst
in the local galaxies, we regard
your electric embrace, your deluge of fire
with enhanced eye and letter your parts
as though to contain your very novae
in our tenuous web.
At our distance, you seem solid—
green halo, pink breath, and blazing blue
points of light: cells in a great body
with a heart that folds and enfolds again.