S. M. Bower (yo soy el pinhole caballero)
Tabulating Stars
They shift on me. I’ve never been able to get the same number, counting stars. I feel I’ve forgotten about them, or somehow divorced myself from their magnificent question. Each holy wink working above saying “hey, hello”, but reminding that there’s ten-thousand-million-and-twenty folds of vacuum-black shoved between and all around and high and left and right. It’s a task to look up there anymore – make eye contact with those old friends. I used to grab deep, sucking at them till I’d get spinning-dizzy. I’ll make time to marshal another acquaintance. When I find them again, I feel obligated that it not be through a hi-how-are-you glance or a wide-eyed stare and a sigh. I’d like to fall in like a fever dream and come out mystified as to how I, or anyone, could ever forget, or assume they could be finitely tallied.
Tabulating Stars
They shift on me. I’ve never been able to get the same number, counting stars. I feel I’ve forgotten about them, or somehow divorced myself from their magnificent question. Each holy wink working above saying “hey, hello”, but reminding that there’s ten-thousand-million-and-twenty folds of vacuum-black shoved between and all around and high and left and right. It’s a task to look up there anymore – make eye contact with those old friends. I used to grab deep, sucking at them till I’d get spinning-dizzy. I’ll make time to marshal another acquaintance. When I find them again, I feel obligated that it not be through a hi-how-are-you glance or a wide-eyed stare and a sigh. I’d like to fall in like a fever dream and come out mystified as to how I, or anyone, could ever forget, or assume they could be finitely tallied.