Poem: Big Dipper

This is called for what it is, between the third and fourth hour, and it is called man. 

It hums and sings louder with every beat. 

It draws into itself, tall with fingers as willowy as his body.

It is kindness that people enjoy when the man comes knocking on all kinds of doors. 

Lightly at first, then with each successive knock, more irresistible.

Woman should have been asleep, but the earlier shocks had not subsided.

With dry mouth, awakened women open their minds to a thousand de-evolutions of their bodies.

It is not birthdays that the souls remember.

Woman does not spend equal time on concrete as she does on dirt and sand and rocks.

This did not go well for her. She is damaged with odd sensations.

Her friends and family are miles away as the stars she prays to in the sky. 

They are the seven stars everyone knows. 

The man points with his long fingers at the Big Dipper.  He claims it as his own.

The woman wants direction, which way to navigate her fifth hour.

She does it by finding another constellation.

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