The nightsky isn’t ink, a cloth, or swatch
of every dark degree.
Stars aren’t glitterbits spilling,
eyes winking or pinhole pierces.
Not loveletter ciphers from heaven's quill.
Our eyes squint obsessively to interpret
endless pages of punctuation.
a stoneage throw away, reporting lightyears
of birthing, flexing, gloating, exploding,
launching theirmeggedons on distant planets
ripe with impious aliens.