I cleaned out my idea books
to make room for textbooks,
set down my quantum books
to fiddle with computer programs,
rid my mind of poetry
to welcome in philosophy,
turned away from all I felt
until I thought no more.
But the stars don't care
how you interpret
quantum mechanics
or what images
you make with them
or how you came to be,
for they are
your creator,
the still image
of their past lives
making its way to you,
slowly.
I turn away and the light
cannot be said to shine.
When I do not write about them,
they do not wait,
yet are still where I left them
when I come to my senses,
turn back around
and see.
The city lights are star,
fallen on the ground,
and the path I take to see them,
a black hole's event horizon,
dangerous and dark,
Nine pm out on the bluff,
with cold stars of night air
burning my burnt fingers,
and stars of water molecules
rippling down below
and stars of thrilling melodies
ringing from the bell tower
and stars of my own,
palpable as I peak
from under a branch
and the city glitters into being,
stars of probability functions and
many-worlds
collapsing in the existence of
many-minds
but somehow always the way I see it,
and only when I see it.
Each scientist and poet
got their fame
by listening to the stars
and reporting what they heard.
No more or less
could ever be said
about anything in the world,
but stars and stars
is all we are,
little nuclear reactors of light
so bright
our after image spans the solar system,
pushing further everyday.
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