Starlight

You said Plato and Pluto can keep their stars,
but those are our stars, pal. We fix them in our eyes.
The past two
mornings, crisp in October clear, they haven’t seemed so far,
them stars, twinkle-twinkle. Cool little breezes always jar my
sullen mind through

the push to hoarfrost and on to out-and-out ice. Often, I live in snow,
yards of the white pack like still ponds, reflecting the moonlight
above, twinkle-twinkle.
Your stars may be pinpricks in distant plies or a constant flow
of light hope, a God promise of mother mercy and father might.
Your stars may be wrinkles,

some subtle wave in time, but mine, pal, mine burn.
My stars flame under like hot blood, pockets of hot blood—
twinkle-twinkle past
thought into action, past theory into practice, a sudden turn
for the worse on the preaching tongues of my childhood
that somehow last.