The blurred edge of black between crescent moon and sky
suggests this world’s disease,
the discomfort madness breeds.
Like some lost anemic with sickle-celled blood,
the moon, the sky, the very clouds of heaven
flow in our veins
blurred to a blued current starving for air.
Starstuff also decays slowly in its long wheeling
and turns toward darkness.
The heaven dies.
I am mad
but I know what I know.
I am mad
but the scenery of all galaxies calls me out of this fever
to run and breathe that last vacuum of space,
to wheel through one more orbit,
to put my constellation in the sky,
to join my death with heaven’s.

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