A real sense of place.

boxing the compass.

you, only son, are the arrow. 

skin like a magnet and eyes lighting your city, the one that can't seem to find 
the stars, you breathe, and you direct. north by northeast to my doorway;
north by northwest to my soil; due east to the water, due north to your home.
I found you some summer, covered in rain, found my zenith thereafter 
and asked your advice.

you, only son, are their sothis.

the ink in your skin used to watch you at night, ages ago. in the middle of some summer,
they found you directing their gods: north by northeast to the ocean;
north by northwest to the sand; due east to the river, due north to who knows.
the son of orion got lost on my sidewalk while shepherding the sky, so I asked,
and I heard his advice.

you, only son, are my sirius.

too bright to be kept and too strong to be held, you are the star 
leading us all back to where we came from, back under and into your glow. 
this is why your city can't see the stars. what it lacks in astronomy it gains
in your smile on the train, your silence in the morning, your boxing the compass
and your sound advice.