There, five inches above your rosy skin, is a hand,
a gesture, a hesitation, a tired bird looking for a nest, my hand.
How infinitely close Pluto is to his gold-haired Sun.
How infinitely far you are to my uncertain touch.
Why have we come to this, darling love!
On this cold blue evening we are as close as two stars,
and as far apart as you are in my arms.