Bright Knight

Orion swung in low on his eastern couch,
raised one fist against the deepening sky,
and dangled an invisible shield against his legs,
stretched in a stilled sprint.
“Come outside” he murmured, arriving earlier each night
as autumn bent itself into cold November.

Three bright points arranged around his gunslinger’s waist:
A clarion call for inexperienced lovers
looking to impress.
One holstered on each firm hip, the third, he admitted,
not exactly aiming for the navel,
but the darker universe within.

“Come outside” he urged, “or at least then let me in”
For him each night seemed the same age as the last,
withering leaves hidden by arrogant darkness,
winter passing in a single brassy stride.
How inviting to be so serenely young.

His casual fingers prodded at window panes,
brilliance probing past sunsets, curtains, eyelids. He beckoned.
A warrior waiting to advance against reluctance
–widening eyes, a gasp of escaping breath—
and blaze briefly in the shadows.

“For you I’ll give up Scorpio, and this bright view of midnight,” he called,
“If only you’ll let me in. For you I swallowed the moon,
I came to rest for you and brought the solstice.”

And yet he waved his club above his head,
lying through gleaming Grecian teeth.
Come spring he’d still be lying,
immortal beneath the horizon, vanished from sight.

So I did not
unlock
my window.