Stars

The stars speak ambiance--
they are hands covering our globe
and spider veins of nebulae
decorate the interior in a
vast glow--a horizon that drops its bloom
particle by particle into our lids,
the blinking eyes that see from the occipital,
a contracting spectrum of light,
quick as the bashful meteorite
or comets savoring their vast alignment.
I envy the moon and her proximity,
above there among the celestial anatomy.
If I could, I would be a crater
on her petrified layers,
to breathe in a little stardust
and sing infinite hymns to their
dazed explosive vapors.

Light

Outside the light touches me,
smooths over my skin and sails
upon the iris of my eye,
is this the light of God?
Or did he turn off his lamp?

Please remember. It does not matter whether the memory stays alive underground, attached to some molecule on your skull that once composed your tedious brain. Tonight, while viewing the vast ocean, I was alive once again. I saw my beginnings. I saw my endings. I saw my body among the undulating matronly patterns. Yet, the loquacious hands had to gather me and tuck me back under their gaze once again. And now, I am sinking deeper into this artificial world, this doomed population. They, like the alabaster waves against the backdrop of the sky that I observed tonight, seduce me. Please stop. Please stop.