Suns uncountable cascade the eye
and wash the cheek.
Near and far, all stars are here,
yet pass right through the fingers.
When a comet with somewhere to go
rips the fabric of the sky,
cool moons in esoteric turnings
mend the tear.
And I, at length, to bed:
my parents pull the warm cover to my chin;
when I draw it higher
and try to count the glimmerings of light
between the woven threads,
I tear the fabric.
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