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.