there are galaxies
above what used to be the soft spots
at the top of our heads

we elongate our necks
at an angle
trying to take in

all that neon-filled fullness
of the light-splattered cosmos

it scares me — that I don’t know
what you’re searching for

me, the same old — a flickering
of some sort, a disjointed piece of wire

just as I used to compete
with my father, pointing out night planes

in place of dead stars

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by Cory Hutchinson-Reuss