I look out at a distance
of 13 light-years
to see your hands,
a spirit drawing chalk marks,
a white moon orbiting
an ending
unhemmed pants,
a thread’s re-awakening
at my little ankles,
you prune the high tide
from coming into me,
you hold my open fabric
like a trellis
ballpoint pin between your teeth,
you measure how much of me is left
when I stand, when I walk
by your sewing machine
to find you 13 light years
away