These Cells Are Passages

perhaps this star, not just any one, but this one, is our star. perhaps it is a freckle on the back of the sky, bigger than the others though similar in shape, a mark that is permanent. perhaps this star, unlike the others, is our star, one we can pretend to touch with our fingers, one we can see when the sky is exposed. perhaps we can see it better out in the country, silent and vast like god, and perhaps we can point to other freckles, their appearance no less remarkable than the modest trace of this star, not just any one, but this one. perhaps this star is our star, our home.