Astronomy of Language
my dream I try to see with the old light of stars.
can their past brilliance be my present illumination?
neck craned upward, I feel the earth
giving to the weight of my bare feet,
if drawing away from the tinder lights of the sky.
grass stays cool, never warming under my soles.
call of an owl inhabits the moonless air of the night,
portal to deeper wildness and the warm, skittering chaos
the creature world.
darkness of space travels to my eyes, too.
at the speed of light?
do I myself provide the absence of light?
I receive the bluish, white pinpricks of the stars.
stings of infinity.
hang on my face like tears.
these ancient echoes of fission make me a mythical being
I see the splay of the old Greek gods
off with sparklers, cast aloft
the ever-belated compassion of Zeus?
are we both curious phenomena of astrophysics?
hover in the wonder of worlds unnumbered.
me, or tell the stars, or tell Jesus that we are metaphors,
cheap eternity of coy words.
black of the sky is not really as black as the pupil of my eye;
tiny black hole that receives the crystal words of the stars.
from their cores in all directions with all their might—
and yet extinguishing themselves through being,
star words write fathomless poems above me.
the same, I hear the rolling resonances of distant bursts in the eonic
wake me up when music falls out of the skies
meteors rain down in August.
will lie down in the grass on my back
be the Orion or Queen Cassiopeia of the earth
let the night heavens wonder at me.
I will know that we have learnt the astronomy of language.