Consider that we rotate
into beams of starlight,
they are always there
while we are not 

phantom pinholes dance 
as night settles, as stars shine 
certain in darkness we know 
where but not when

even in day
we are bathed 
in starnight

with each moment we leave what was
to catch up ahead, plain to see absent the light

I once shone down from the space behind,
to illuminate from atop and I can attest
that there are no wires

just zephyrs 
and complicit meadow sprites,
as good reasons as any
in the low moss 
and creeping 
thyme

at the base of the blades of grass 
where traces of moon yet are found 

cc: Chagall 2021