constellation says hey

The constellation
rides overhead. A friendly guy
on a thing like a horse, made of
nuclear furnaces, trailing between
them imagined lines. And we'd like to think

he is waving at us. Okay, maybe
he is. Maybe the stars
have aligned, all turned
towards Earth, to present to us

a pantomime. All on course to gift us
with their influence, in order of birth.
What blessings rain down from these beings
whose trace we have always drawn.

When the sun is amidst
this or that group of stars, (who don't even know
the sun
from Eve, so distant from anyone
they are), we call it an Age, but
it's hard to believe

that they'll ever see,
or know their place
in a sky that's so far
from where they live.
Those fucking stars
that make up a face - they don't even KNOW
each other! It's just
from one vantage point - and
of course, it's ours - that they
even scarcely resemble parades
of crooked farm animals, grotesque
celestial implements ranked in arrays. However
it looks from where they're from, with
the separate parts of their bodies outflung
and in foreign arrangements, their joints
and limbs
unstrung
in a mess making mannequins
we will never dress up, or name,
or plot out. We've always preferred

our view, somehow.

But from some other star, there's a whole new gang
that rides sprawling crossing those skies, chasing one

little point of light,
dimly off to the side,
where we hang.