the stars are brighter here
than any she has ever seen:
city sky of dying fireflies
charcoaled by this burn.

once, a philosopher
said each had a melody; listen here
the crickets carol and we can almost
hear the stars, the church bells call.

fall to our knees, and in the space
of sighs we drink the dripping galaxies,
moon phases in our eyes:
spectral landscape of our minds.

our songs sputter like light bulbs
next to pearls above, steeped
in blue and deep and sleepier
than any hymn composed by the sun.

lesser pieces of planets beneath,
we draw new constellations, now
parallel to us
(we are made of stardust).