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.