If I am
the stuff of stars,
shouldn’t I
glow, radiate,
warm all
around me
and myself
as well?
What stars’
stuff am I exactly?
If their remains
coalesced
into this human
assemblage,
they must have burned,
spent themselves to
waste; scorched cinders
drifting
across the universe
finally clumping
through chance or
misfortune
here to write
about themselves
and to rue the end
of the glory
that they
once were.