by gus Simonovic

If words are the stars,
poems are constellations.
You need to know the figure
to shape out meanings.
And wherever you move
every nightsky speaks
a different language.

I crossed the line –
and left my northern stars
at that invisible border.
They were confiscated
by the equatorial customs office.
But I smuggled my poems with me
so I can still speak to you.

I exchanged my Little Dipper
for Magellanic clouds.
Instead of Polaris
Sigma Octanis brightens my horizon.

And I reach up high and I dig down deep
like every plant that has been
pulled out by its roots.
Lucky to have Leo and Orion
to help me bear my Southern Cross.

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