So you've seen the night sky
as it truly is
and you've been ordained in
the trembling rain of
stars that traveled
all the way from the
prehistoric source,

coming through like holy static,
coming through the polished shadows,
coming through in pieces
of the Afterworld,

and it must be something
from elsewhere
because it doesn't speak
but says so much more than we
deserve to know,
more than the slow exhale
of the maiden moon
could ever rasp—

she's no match for fire,
no rival to ice,
sleek as the "yes" in your
lover's eyes
and so much like your
motionless stream of being,
your milky, lucid sleep:

the night sky as it truly is

lifting Earthlings and Earth and
your unfinished self,
now the shape of devotion,
now the mirror of stars,

outside the gate
in the Answer that
thought of everything long
before you asked,

in the unseen light
that is the
Truth
behind the night.


Patricia Joan Jones