The stars are mouths
that hum and sing, but
do not exhale, do not
articulate like we do.
You asked if they made
noise before they die, or
if what we’re hearing
was created long ago—
a last breath of sorts, you
hypothesize, or more—a last
word, if only we knew what
it was, other than some sad
pluck of imaginary vocal chords,
the strumming we only get to hear
long after the concert is over
for the rest of the sky.
But no—each song is a finger
print, a pulse, sharing an age,
a size, a location, and perhaps—
perhaps a true breath—
like a bird on a branch,
a purpose exhaled in notes,
with hidden details—a map
outlining meaning with each stir.
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