Shine to me, stars.
There’s too much light.
The milk spills unseen
above my head.
Only single points, flickertooth
reddish or blue, though
the welcome shoulders of Orion
gleam in winter.
Skyteeth gnaw
at the fuzzy not-quite-
darkness, leave their pinholes—
not what I want to see
as age blurs
what was already
out of focus.
I want a misty field
above my head in the dark,
so many I can’t name the constellations,
large grains and small,
a scatter like kosher salt
spilled on a black table.
Shine on me, stars.
Take me where everything
becomes clear.
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