Last night I turned out the lights
and went outside under
a thousand thousand stars.
I looked up to see one moving,
but no! It was not a falling star,
just us looking down at us.
Maybe the God that talks to some
will talk to me tonight, now.
But no! There was only the
satellite, and me, and the stars,
which we keep looking at
and can’t understand
and don’t need to.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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