planetarium drifts across the black
rotation of stars changing position

soft roar, a jet lifts
red light blinks into the distance

unseen southern cross
below the horizon at this hour of evening

cooler air of floating leaves                                                  
satellit­es drift on mapped orbits

tiny connections
govern all in this darkness

major explosion

invented & recorded with the silence of
space junk polluting frontiers

the vacuum of nothingness
                                                
plan­e gone

different land nearing
other meanings ascribed to night
                        
gods & other beings of fiction
trap & trick & bear false influence

dark again in a northern land                                            
planets emerge with their sparkling colours

full moon
ceremony of paper lanterns lifting heavenly

I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.

Do you ever think
about becoming
someone new?
About unmaking,
Recreating,
Partaking,
In the life of someone -anyone-
Who isn’t you?

Hours and hours and days and weeks and months and years
I perfected, rejected, resurrected the art
of becoming someone new.

In mere moments,
a new me.
a new world.
a new dream.

A world to be anyone
or go anywhere
Or be anything.
When I just
Don’t want
To be
Me.

New demons and angels,
New shadows and suns,
New curves and new angles,
New characters
to become.

A world not like
my own.
The trees are paper.
The people move with a blink.
Grass is woven from knowledge and
Leaves are sprouting from ink.

There I go
at a moment’s notice.
Diving, delving, digging.
Revealing
an impossible time.
Where the improbable, inconceivable, unimaginable, unthinkable
occurs every
Other
Line.

I am disappearing into the books.
Invisible to the world.
Unmaking myself,
Recreating myself,
And becoming someone new.