The stars in their ordained paths and metered blinking their blue shifts their moody disappearances into the south or into daylight their human dreams of travel - I dispute their ownership by anyone and would they weakly claim to own me?
Should I feel the fatherly pressure of their hands on the nape of my neck? Should they tell us the future if we’re quiet enough to listen and if we read the newspaper? I can’t unpack decisions from markets and markets from the seasons nor seasons from the stars.
They are comfortable with great distances: they circle and swoon. One day, their orbits will bend to one another and the great gas globes will move in straight lines. They’ll put two gallons in the tank and go wherever they want to go. But for now I am as bound as they are, and I am told I don’t live in the same kind of darkness.