I’m as much a hypothesis as you,
as much a tirade against how the stars
have been constellated in the daydreams
and nightmares of other living beings.

I’m shaping my body into parsecs
and fathoms and grace notes and ampersands.
I am sad because I will one day die
without knowing more than a mote or two.

And yet I’m so happy that I have been
given the sheer petals of this lifetime
to hold in the vase of my hands like phlox
floating above a sea of Queen Anne’s lace.

And I feel like there’s a star-shaped piñata
that’s being batted open in my throat,
and a song is spilling out that contains
the blue marble of the Earth spinning in

the sweet interstellar mammalian dark.
Remember, nothing musical need make
perfect sense. Sometimes a poem bluebells
and rain gutters and sunflowers up.