So There Are No Stars

So close, so there are no stars.
Like words without sounds.
Or cold spots on floor boards without past possession.
A hollow thing.
Like a passage without rite.
Or a signal without a gesture, returning uncast.
A writing of circles held below the oceans and the lakes and the rivers.
Weighed down by buried dreams and drowned desire.
Everything falls apart.
And everything moves in circles.
Everything will be beneath the water.
Even the stars.