I pretend to be deliberate:  I press
the amiable tufted skin of an orange,
smell a fresh cantaloupe, and wonder
if everyone is misrepresented by the way lines
break their young skin.

The engineer as amateur astronomer
knows how to make the cold connections,
nailing the line from eye to scope to sky,
but when he turns to me and says
I have the moon for you
the frozen stars wring out
a silly, sentimental tune.