The stars are somehow the same as I left them
in April, which might have been the last time I
bothered to look up.
Maybe it was the time, or the clouds, or the distance-
You would know as well as anyone how busy we've all been. Maybe
I just didn't want to see them and think of how they looked at the top of the hill in January,
didn't want to think of how much they were the same. Maybe
it was just the fear of empty nostalgia.
But the stars are still up there for how much has happened down here,
the self-same portrait of an inconsistent memory. Now I'm looking at the sky, the sky
that is still so little removed from the one I saw on top of a hill in January,
and maybe everything will be fine after all.