Poems’ splendor are like the stars’
One of many is close and hot and helpful
for tanning or photosynthesis,
a sonnet to impress the girl,
a wasteland to define a generation.
Others are pretty, less famous or
accessible but nevertheless
useful for nautical
navigation if you learn how
to read the signs, a foot, a dipper,
a metaphor, a kindred thought on Loss.
To find some you must go far
out of your way, an observatory, a picture
book at the library, a locked diary
decorated with kittens and broken hearts
beneath a mattress--these stars will never
cause or cure cancer but they burn
just the same and just as bright.
And some are thousands of light
years away and no one will ever see them.
A beauty unto itself, birthing blazing
dying in splendor for the pleasure of being
lovely, dancing alone in the dark living room
of the universe or in the mind of a man
moments before the bullet enters
his half-crazed brain,
perhaps a prayer for peace?