No one has ever been warmed by a star.
Can science say who we are?
The imperfection of a dying breath
is making noises over our talk of death.
We were in the tent for hours surrounded by nothing but stars.
The engine of the sun is our lone engine.
Without it life would be nothing. Nothing is cold.
Where has your latest collection of thoughts been?
To really visit a star I would get a bit old.
No rocket can reach what we know. If we knew
I don’t think we would do mathematics like you.
We had been told of our latest feast in the tent.
The day preceding, I had no idea what that day meant.
You told us inside, drunk among the crumbs,
how stars are lights. They are not suns.
It does make me happy to think we may not be right
about things today. I think in the end
it will be hotter during the day. And colder—much colder—at night.
The religion makes things cozy, unique.
As a child I remember simple worship and love. That’s what made me weak.
That display of brass angels. Mom opened them—those were the ones.
I still remember them in the living room’s half-dark.
Stars are lights and not suns.