Somebody always needs to explain to you
all starlight is dead—often a man who also
must point out each constellation, intoning
all their names: Orion, Aquarius, Taurus
the bull. You know he’s not exactly correct,
but that sequin pleasing you on the horizon?
Time, the speed of light…it could be. So you
stand in a ring of friends somewhere the
sky’s dark enough to feel close, rummaging
for warmth inside your sweatshirt pockets
as the late autumn lawn stiffens under your
sneakers. At least the mosquitoes are gone.
And now you’re remembering a long flight
at night, how each city you passed held out
its long arms of light: shopping centers with
day-bright parking lots, with luminous arenas
carpeted in lush grass. And what a rush as
you landed: moving headlights, bridge glitter,
bright boats in dark water, then a drumroll
beneath the wheels: a song of earth’s welcome.
Of course we could be about to blast it all
to nothing. It was nothing before. Dry leaves
rattle in the trees. But tonight someone has
lit a wood fire that makes me think we could
live here forever. Sparks fly up and vanish.
All we know is what shelters us now: night,
morning, the comfort of our old stories and
laughter, the patient wordlessness of the stars.
