I go out to sit with them — thin insects tuning their strings, the night’s first bat casting in the breeze — and remember that evening, hot and windless, a new lover stripping my bed, spreading my sheets on the moonless grass. Who were we then? Young and swallowed by the night. Unfinished. Ill matched. Sirius trudged across my narrow field of sky, the whole universe sliding away, a little more life slipping out of me, again so briefly in love. Some quiet evenings I go out to sit with them, all the men I’ve been, and beneath that same quilt of stars retrace my path, the weak orbit of every man to touch me.