Oh, we see the stars, all right,
their brittle cold mystery
but if you took the gentlest
of knives and pushed open
the top of my head like clay,
in there are all the warm constellations
one could dream of, a star nesting
in every fingertip, Polaris in each eye,
a Milky Way down my core.
Here are all my unmapped stars, the candles
of my small hopes, oh, and look,
there are a few of yours there too!
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022
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