“That weren’t no D.J.
that was crazy cosmic jive”
— David Bowie, Starman.
Every night I go into the ether,
outer filament, and call to the lost
children. I’m neither mother nor father,
no one’s sister. Still, they come, with star frost
in their hair, for the universe is sin,
a crumb of a thing. Like the abandoned
ones in their fairy tales, I take them in.
Dry their tears. But they’re not mine. The frightened
ones, damned, wretched, screaming without a sound.
None of you will ever be mine; though years
from now, when you’re old, you’ll recall with pain
all my kindness and how once you were found
you ran away, once I took all your fears.
You’re still not saved, star child, simply mundane.