The stars are a misunderstanding.
The stars are an electrical current.
They're the silver spurs of lovelorn cowboys.
I don't want to alarm the nightwatchman,
but stars are the angels' bloodied wounds
as seen from a very great distance.
That's why we're leaving gravity
to get on with its sucking.
This is why we're parting sky from sky -
on a quest for some honest answers.
That's the reason I'm sewing Ursa Major
to Canis Minor and Orion to Andromeda,
the Milky Way a collage of insignificance,
a fleeting montage, light's sorcery.
It's said the nature of reality is transient.
That inside each star is a word.
Inside each word is an unfinished poem.
Not only this Earth do we attend,
but the worlds above and below us.
So really the stars are apples
or odd fish or burning flowers,
their crusts a light and flaky pastry,
with gooey cherries hidden within.
Stars are smooth to the touch.
Their breaths are minty,
eyes brimming with glassy tears.
The stars are quite tetchy.
I can see them through the top of my head;
stars leaning drunkenly,
stars arguing, stars leaping.
I'm under their non-verbal jinx.
I too have an unknown meaning.
All our nights go beyond knowledge,
a pathway lit by intuition,
every direction leading us home.
Where something divine is shining.
I celebrate the rust in the trees.
I inhabit the joy of the wires at the bile
Of the laughing rainbow, at the gastronomy
Of the lightning's emaciated edge.
I praise the immovability of the wind.
I tap my message of hope
Against the giddy girders of the troposphere.
This I do for you.
There is in this no language for sin;
I do not have the grammar to absolve you.
The world opens to me its intricate,
Misdirected machinery and I can see
There is only the dust of mesh
And turn: the toothless sounds of infidelity
With progress, tooth to tooth.
I release canticles for the elements.
I sing of the grieving oil that keeps
The hearts of avenging volcanoes awash.
You see me do these things.
You see me.
You see.
You.
