When all the stars have fled away
you will discover that no more
can gods come from the Milky Way,
but faceless wander pathless seas
without a guide or farther shore
beneath the feckless galaxies.
No constellations in the void
of shame and surreptitiousness.
And through it rumbling, unemployed
and rusting inter-stellar ships
guided in adventitiousness
by moldering computer chips.
We knew an age in summer times
when stars were ripening the fruit
during the secret midnight’s chimes.
Now frozen juice and circuitry
and sightless human eyes commute
on dimming quests of errantry.