The far majestic (bly poem)

Your cigarette down-poised, un-lit.
Welcome to the often-tunneled
earth.

Your course is mapped
like a constellation
in the stars.
But the shapes
- the bear the belt
the crab the stupid-
handled pot -
you don't buy it.
Are you so desperate
against the dark?

Maybe it's a trick
for memory. But is that wisdom
or excuse?

Luckily age
has taught you to doubt.
Often, yourself.

These days you're happy
making love slowly. You wish
the coffee stayed hotter
in the cup.
What if
the world could give up wanting.
You ask that to the ass
of every young girl.

Friend,
what map could possibly lead you?
What starshine
will sing you
through the night?