America doesn’t get stars anymore.

You can go anywhere
in any city and go
up to any roof
but no stars

You can drive out to the burbs
and get out of the car
and lie down in the cul-de-sac
with your head resting on the curb
and look up
but no stars

You can hike into the mountains
of West Virginia
and find that big telescope they keep up there
and you look up, and
you may see stars

But they are faint stars,
like airbrushed stars
speckled on a black shroud
too dull, too small
not brilliant and pointy like Kenyan stars
or Hungarian stars
or Mongolian stars
or Pacific stars

The truth is, America doesn’t get stars anymore.

We had them, once, when the republic was fresh
and active
and man about town
and everyone had his business
and everyone had her keep

We had them, once, when the wars were over
and families moved to the burbs
into cul-de-sacs
like water flooding the great plains
and when we built telescopes in West Virginia

We had them, once, when you could
look into the sky and see mankind reach
far, far into the heavens
as sometimes we still do today
but, no one looks up
and when they do, no stars

Because America doesn’t get stars anymore.

Maybe one day, when the shroud is lifted
when the clouds are sifted
when the crowds uplifted
together demand
to look to the sky
and see through the veil
and welcome the pointillism of the stars
the diffraction of the stars
those brilliant stars,
those bright, white, piercing stars
those true stars that aspire
and hope
and dream
and make us remember
where we come from