The Stars Are All Made of Us

Maybe, he says, it’s with the stars
The way it is with us. Maybe

The stars in their long scarves of dust
They vaguely know was once their skin,

With apologies to Corbett,
Are anxious about falling in

To where they will be something, will
Be part of a dark collection,

But no longer part of themselves,
No longer apart as themselves.

Maybe. It does seem poetic,
But face it. Almost everything

Seems poetic to us once it
Vaguely seems to us it’s like us.