Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Nick Ripatrazone Constellations She held up her thumbs parallel, lunulae ivory and crisp. She has become obsessed with dull specks, cataloging catenae and fossae. The moon is now her comparison point for all things: routes on roadmaps resemble rilles and bruises are craters with diffused rays. Earth is now the moon's satellite. I try to look and understand but there is only enough room on the eyepiece for one to see. Football He played for Cork City FC, twirled the ball on a cleat tip, cut left round the last back. Now he bags oranges, peaches at the market. An apple falls. I watch his feet. One step past the Cortland. No fancy moves. Next Poem
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