We used the sky-watching excuse

to get naked out at the 50-yard line.

Pure star-gazers, we,

the middle of the universe

you, me, and the golden smudge among the clouds

foreground to deeper space.

The comet, a ribbon through your hair

that hung down to my face,

shot right on by us that summer

through us,

like us, disintegrating.

In a dream last night

all these years later

you, woman much missed,

and that dusty ball of ice,

you and that

sparkling transient golden ribbon

a bright slash

across sad memory.