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Star

 Star


One star suffices. More just makes more of nothing. You cannot live in numbers. Stars collect taxing debt by showing how little we imagine. The general rug beneath feet slips while posing as eternity. Hip entitlement to portions of the sky reflected in radio waves meant to last forever bunch up in afterthoughts. Forethought comes later. This rock and that sun occupy space while the transmigration of souls finds output in a song. Night cannot quite compete. Stern numbers wobble on the axis but, but then: afterthought as forethought. Language has been a problem all along. The assay follows cryptic lines. You feel something tight as saying so, right to the eye. Hear a jingling sound, the birth of stars. A pasture with dark canopy calls love called love. This represents an extreme view, right now.


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