Averted Vision

There are no streetlights where my cottage hides 
within a forest. Nights there grant a cold 
permission to the stars who drag along 
their lazy arc. Away from manmade glare, 
those tiny bubbles pierce the blackest ink 
from where they draw their strength—the darkness moves
aside for light—and dimmer stars shine most 
when seen from out of sight. Just look an inch 
or less away and see it scream to life 
as though a thing directly viewed cannot 
exist because the eye beholds it. We 
are much the same. We pale, become demure 
when called upon, but in our DNA 
is supernova. Why? What force constrains 
our gamma burst? Are we not made of stars? 
Our central mass should cause accretion, pull 
them—moons and planets, lovers—into us, 
ensnaring them with gravity they can’t 
withstand. Be circumpolar stars, then. Don’t 
descend below a lesser body’s frail 
horizon. Flare if there is lightning in your skull, 
or pulse with fusion in your veins, or die 
to swallow worlds, and leave a hole so big, 
so black, that every eye is shut and all 
the streetlights ever lit are stilled. Or else, 
at least, surround yourself with those who know 
to see you from the corner of their eye.