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When we name a star
It shrivels to a bite-sized, luminous crumb
The swallowing of which, if we allow it,
Turns the universe inside out beneath our rib cage.
Know the star, not by name, but by ingesting it, terrified
Of what it will manifest in your blood: a kiss in public,
Long and lingering, unaware of any other eyes but those
Above the lips you touch with your own. A delay
On the drive to work becomes an omen you can read:
That red-tailed hawk circling, a guide you are
Compelled to follow toward that vision you had
A year ago, a decade ago, that person
You were going to be
When you grew up.