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One Poem 

Donald Illich

Ache

I am the sky. People talk about me
when they can say nothing else.

They jab a finger toward a sliver
of moon, as if their attention

could make it full. Aircraft buzz
the horizon, and children point at it,

excited to be new and to live.
Others gather up the clouds

in their vocabulary. They try
to differentiate between cirrus

and cumulus. I could care less.
I ache toward space above me,

where stars noisily enter with sizzling
lights. I wish I could join them,

hide myself away, where there’s nothing
but the dark, for centuries on end.