all sidewalks lead to andromeda.

if you go out for
a walk alone at night
you are bound to walk
out of this galaxy--
we all have that 
impulse especially in june or
august when the sky is heavy
with handful after handful of
stars scooped from
the glass candy jars
god keeps on his end table
next to a tall glass of water--
he turns the pages of 
a compilation of poetry
written by humans
& sometimes gets up
to replace the lights that
went supernova while he
was reading-- on occasion he
look up to see you who left
orbit-- you who used the sidewalk
too religiously & ended
up on the farthest arms of 
the milky way-- breaking
gravitation pull with your
canvas shoes--
if you keep walking & 
remember all the nights
you spent trying to mine
the sky for constellations--
plucked the big dipper
from between the celestial
circus to stir your mug of
tea-- Capricorn took you
on his back so you could rest your
feet from walking-- you have
a tendency to forget time
once you pass the threshold
beyond our galaxy--
they told you andromeda was a memory--
a spiral woven into the foreground
but all sidewalks end
at the door step to
another galaxy-- you wipe your
feet at the door-- this is as far
as you constellations will 
follow-- here the stars are different--
they make new animals & 
kitchen utensils to 
teach humans how to 
eat the sky-- step inside mosaic
wall of someone else's suns--
pick up the planets
like marbles to take home 
with you on the walk back--
before you leave
you walk the parameter-- see
in the distance another galaxy take a
cartwheel & one galaxy merge 
with another in the greatest motion
of love since the earth
submerged into in oceans--
green & static blue in the spiraled
arms of each other--
there's no greater force of
gravity
than the perpetual motion
of the love of celestial bodies
keeping each other in spiral
& magellanic burst--
ursa major walks you home
like a good mother & before
you know it there's cicadas 
humming again & the sidewalk
is thick with august
& your shoes are wet from 
walking deep in light & star
& before you come home
you take from god's glass jar
on his end nightstand--
he's too busy reading
a poem you wrote
to notice-- and out
your window another star goes
supernova & no body mourns--
but you laugh for her
& hurl another in her place--
your pockets are still full
of planets--
all sidewalks still lead
to andromeda.