Dear Saturn,

I fashion my body
into a human telescope
and point it
at the midnight sky:
my wrists rotate this way, that,
while my fingers bend—
feet flexed, torso twisted
like a long rope of licorice.
With these simple movements,
a picture of you draws closer,
clearer, on the canvas of my mind.
What I once thought of as a blink
(no, a wink!) has now been cracked
wide open; I enter into
the previously unknown.
My own lids shutter closed
but when I part my lips
and look inward,
I find
I can see
everything.

All my life
I’ve encountered geometry in nature.
You, a circle in the sky
hula-hooped by a constellation
of endless other circles.
But the rotating clouds
on your north pole
possess six clear-cut sides—
not at all unlike the dice I’ve tossed free
into the hollow recesses of my anatomy.
On the way down, they clink
against each individual ribcage bone
like a pair of ice cubes falling
into a glass tumbler,
pushing my (mis)fortune as far
as it will go.