The stars carve a false start of forever from the monolithic slab of night. If only we might say them right. If, instead, we read their points as primmer text for endings, then we might understand their bodies write and die like ours. And yet, like smiles, they’re pre- literate as floods and caves, as bone-black hands and beasts. We’ve left their muted signs for circumpolar structures, the vaulted tonnage of sky, the bad- faith sanctum of network, of online friends and cloud storage. They hang, unknowable as death is to the children in us, short- sighted and small. I feel we, taller now, misread this light from eviscerated stars and it recalls how we used to look at letters, those once hot organs of words gone cold like this. Before we knew to distrust these red, orange, yellow, green blue, violet skins of eternity, which the tallest lied to us about. As their rote sounds left our tongues for ears, and our eyes entered their salve of shape and color, we grew and we loved it seemed the letters loved us for a time I tried did as they said to claim them. We sang, I sang, (wasn’t that you, singing?) Now I know my ABCs with puppets, chocolate milk, cheese crackers? We smiled at my Teacher, who beamed above us, so tall above our song, beneath the strings she hung above the black- board, or spilled from the canopic jars of her Anubis-looking mouth. There, she contained our five millennia of carbon. There, if we could say it: The fake eternity the stars preserve like letters cut from song whenever we start singing words to fill what empties between us.