two figures lying along the lower sky. the first has lifted his head;
a small bright star marks the just-opened eye. the second has not.
the second is the constellation's namesake. all the records call this
figure simply the second, as if the first did not need a name.
on nights when this rises the sleeper on the
floor below turns once in their bed and does not wake. those who walk
the corridor before dawn sometimes feel a hand
on the shoulder and learn, by morning, that it was their own. a small
dream is passed between the two — never read,
only transferred.