I sat among the stars at night, as a child; I soaked up from the air that impression of a manifest destiny: our every day reshaped, reborn a million times over among a billion potential suns swimming in the blackness.
Fevered, I searched my imagination for access—a way—and found, of course, television: each Saturday morning I enlisted, munching fruit loop rations. Through those animated frames shimmered a clue, a thought, a vision of a deeper world realized.
And sometimes all alone I admit to myself that I sometimes still behold the night sky and—like a child—allow wonder and terror to fill me with the possibilities of all creation:
These poems I write like thick wax lines drawn in a space cadet’s coloring book.