By
             the glow of the

                                     little comet’s tail,
             we rapture. We wake

                                                                         our neighbors, who lean out their railing
                                                 to see an echo of the galaxy.

Hiding us from the rain,
             the roof’s belly glows

                                     flickering like an ashtray
             in distant light--

                                                                         the way I imagine cave fires
                                                 in the long-gone period

cast shadows on the walls
             which made story,

                                     imagined bison and humans,
             invented a newness

                                                                         which wasn’t much different than the new
                                                 now. We still swaddle babies, have stars.

We coo and bear awe in cold,
             brave trace glimpses of cosmos

                                     outside an apartment
             standing still and smoking

                                                                         like leaves burning in autumn,
                                                 dim from miles away but the smell.

Yes, now with your father’s telescope
             taking turns warming hands,

                                     exchanging fire for fire.
Theodore Heil is a writer living in New York. He is the author of Movements (Bottlecap Press, 2026), excerpts of which are featured in Hobart, ExPat Press, and Poet’s Row.