sub caelo tacito

I tilted my head upwards 
looking for stars 
that could reach 
past the incessant 
glow of my city street. 
A halo of borrowed brightness 
stitched itself into 
the lowest hanging clouds. 
There is no sign of light 
apart from skyglow. 
A night that has 
forgotten its darkness, 
glowing faintly with the echo 
of our own creations— 
seems sad. 
What becomes of rest? 
What becomes of wonder? 
A sky without stars 
is not a nightime. 
A sky without stars 
is a fresh wiped 
slate of forgetting. 
No constellations 
to name. 
No ancient fires 
to direct us home.