Tarmac black is the closest
most get to the darkness required
for seeing some stars.
Pats of begrimed and flattened gum
make a dot to dot of that we discard
from our unlit, fleshy selves.
We could draw connecting lines:
veins enlivening a form to clothe in stories
but they’d soon disappear under a glob of spit or a dropped drink.
Let us simply continue to spit out that which we cannot digest
expanding this fetid milky way until our mouths are stoppered
with the unpalatable negatives of stars.