Running vertically, splitting the night sky,
the dark seam of interstellar clouds

entwines the magic of the Milky Way,
the inky river meeting the smidgen

of galaxy our eyes can perceive.
Not a division or a disagreement

amping into argument or war,
it’s a nursery for new stars and planets,

engines of elemental creation woven
from dusty cocoons of our galactic core

that I long to lasso and drag onto
my planet of tumult and disarray.

To peer through the windows behind
which the newborns lie, swaddled, sleeping,

and say, “Aren’t they adorable?” Then look
at each other with those generous eyes

and say, believing every word,
“Just like you.”