There were no stars, or I remember none;
no evidence or inkling night or day.
Unless I’m forced to count the sun,
which never lit anyone’s way
but indiscriminately spilled upon the fuss
of things, goading as equals, good and not,
to race, to chase after the same bus
which never ever could be caught.
I was immersed in city time, heaven obscured
by lowering, by thickening of air.
Was it Elizabeth the poet who assured
about the stars: “they’re there, they’re there…”?
I did not even think to look.
And what good would another’s knowing
do for me? My nose was always in a book
so I could hardly see where I was going.
Originally posted, May 2012