What were all of them, really, but bits of something else? Bits of stars?
Men write Bibles. God doesn’t. God writes in stars and worlds and seasons and Hudson Rivers and beautiful women. Creation is the good book.
When people stargazing, they stare at stars,
and many other things which they’ve already
presumed commonly and universally as stars.
Some words were left unsaid Oh Layla, as you slept peacefully in my arms, and the stars kept on peeping into the room to glance at your smile!
She was born of space.
But she bled wrath.
[From Current Work In Progress]
Star-watching: at night the stars of Alastor Cluster blaze in profusion. The atmosphere refracts their light; the sky quivers with beams, glitters, and errant flashes. The Trills go out into their gardens with jugs of wine; they name the stars and discusses localities. For the Trills, for almost anyone of Alastor, the night sky was no abstract empyrean, but rather a view across prodigious distances to known places: a vast luminous map.
Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas–a whole grammar made of light, for words to hard to speak.
I look out into the water and up deep into the stars. I beg the sparkling lanterns of light to cure me of myself – my past and the kaleidoscope of mistakes, failures and wrong turns that have stacked unbearable regret upon my shoulders.
And the geography of the thing–the geography of them–was completely and hopelessly wrong.
If I had an .MP3 of your heartbeat… I might actually get some sleep.