look at them,

so cavalier, drinking

future-liquor in a future-

                bar kissing the wounds

                of future-lovers and

                crisscrossing their future-

scars

look at them,

so ambiguous, with

                their they/them body

                and name and

                baggy clothes. look at

them, going to future-coffee

shops just to hear a barista say

their name and believe each syllable. look

                at the sky with its

                gaping-wide pupils in

                its switched role with

our globe now neon

gleaming and bloodbright.

we are the light we see.

                we are

                the light we see. we are all

                asterism now, not the prim

& proper of

constellation. we are

starless and proud, stellar

                pollution be damned to hell

                with the rest of them. we

                cannot decide between light-

-house or

lampshade, but what’s the difference? sleepy

pattern-finder, rest your desperate

                eyes; there are no constellations left

                to reach for – the whole astral

                succession

has spun apart, the sky

our idols saw is gone. there

are no stars left to see, there is

no new zodiac,

and thank god for that.