All These Poems about Stars

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I’m wordsick of the poet's pen
collecting constellations.
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.

Stars are sidereal bodies
a stoneage throw away, reporting lightyears
of birthing, flexing, gloating, exploding,
launching theirmeggedons on distant planets
ripe with impious aliens.

We spend fortunes to bend 

lenses that maximize their mystery,

but they repay us no mind.
They don’t watch or wish when we fall.