In a world where we
can name the stars

(Those orchestrations
of the celestial affairs
which in their passions
burn it full
of

holes.)

and chart their course
morphing, wavering, and
morphing again.

(What would we find
if we looked

through?

Is it heaven’s light
that pierces
such portholes of immortality?)

Does the world spin
by the force of their fall?
Could the dog star ever rise,
were it not for the sacrifice
of the king?
One fiery stumble,
but will he rise
again,
or is it all

(that dying burst of light
blossoms before me-
a blushing chrysanthemum

of shattered sky

and I am falling into

the stars)

lost?

(fleeting,

transient radiance)

eternity found.