I could see the stars tonight; three of them.
Half-turned from the face of the moon, one
Could just barely make out what they were
Maybe thinking.

It was as if they were reading out their own
Transcripts of all the good nights I have ever
Had: bullet list format, possibly written on
Index cards.

Small though they undoubtedly are (if they
Are, because I’ve never seen one up close)
They make the wideness of Everything feel
So poor.

When my evenings were read out in their
Starched mutterings, the sphere of the sky
Was delineated utterly to me: one club that
No one joins.