stars and ships and distant whorls

When the wren sang to space stations
in cold black suit of fumes
was when we sifted through our runes of sandstone
out in the desert with some massive comb
looking for speck of diamond
in all that sand
ignoring the process of labor
with vast black ship docked on concrete
piloted by men from across the veldt of stardust.

I was with you then
and I called out
all you could do was smile,
I figured that I would explode with warmth
like some long distant supernova
expanding in pulse of every dangerous breath
that warmed me then
and i figured that I could give you a knife then
without you or I being cut open
only sometimes I knew it was danger
and I held it then smalley like a dagger of stone
wondering what on earth we could be up towards
the heavens
or some kind of glowering hell
where we spent our money on purchasing cages
that wouldn't even let in the gentle breezes
on auburn days of autumn
from the constellation of Sagittarius
where we came from, once.

My life, upon meeting you
became this fiction that I ignored
because it figured
that my name had been common Steven
instead of those sweet gestures of labels
you held out to me

and the stars may be projectors
or they may be glistening eyes dewed over with beauty
but to the scientist
at least they are something beyond common wisdom