I Want to see the Stars Undressed
I want to see the stars undressed.
I want them to swell into a dark sky above a ragged bowl of mountain peaks.
I want the autumn air so, so clear it stings.
I want to walk beyond the ring of fire
and let the heat leak from my jeans.
I want the stars to get naked, slowly, as my pupils ring wide
and my animal brain prepares to hunt and run.
I want to stare into deep time, see the giants and the dwarves.
I want the black black to glow with light so old it makes me dizzy,
and I have to lie back on the ground
and cling to handfulls of frosty grass.
I want the Milky Way to spread her legs above me
and show that brush stroke of a hundred billion suns,
and me a constellation of tiny, meaningless mysteries
falling, falling out along edge of the galaxy.
[Wrote this in Wild Writing. I think the poem we listened to was called “Why I Read the National Enquirer.” Can’t find it. The line that stuck with me was “I want to see the stars undressed.”]