That’s the star.
The one I picked out of all the others.
Not the biggest.
Not the brightest.
But the one I’m headed for
once my work on Earth is done.
The rest of the sky is so generic.
Here a lion, there a crab.
No ram’s horn shines for me.
My glitter in the darkness
has no name that I can find
in any night-sky maps.
I give it mine.
And though I’m sure it sizzles
at some outlandish temperature,
to me, it’s cool enough
to step on.
It might have planets,
the usual orbiting freeloaders,
but they’re of no interest.
There’s nothing elliptical
about my dreams.
I’m near done
with this broken world.
I’ve set my sights on what is perfect.
How I get there
won’t be science.
It’ll just be my business.
I’m almost out of options here.
But I’ve barely tapped
into my beliefs.
| John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review, and Rathalla Review. Latest books, Covert, Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself, are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Open Ceilings. |  |