Hanque O . . .

Romeo lies in a puddle
of self-pity,
his sword flung aside,

the blood of Tybalt
already darkening its blade,
while Saturn,

above and to the west,
is in alignment
with two stars, names unknown to me,

a celestial, hot-tipped arrow
drawn through the bow
of the crescent moon,

drawn and aimed
at Juliet.