There’s the Dark Star of Robert Hunter,
there’s the Dark Star of Stephen Stills.
There’s the Dark Star of yet another -
Bowie. “Blackstar” gives me the chills.
The first - productively transitive
and filled to the brim with diamonds -
will refurbish your luck with plans to live
in sin, with no defiance.
The second - a whimsical aperture
that opens up in your smile.
I entered as into a pasture
that night I walked your moonlit mile.
The third - a solitary candle
there, in the center of it all.
Will blowing it out dismantle
what is, from Alpha to Senegal?
There’s the Dark Star of Eve and Adam,
there’s the Dark Star of Gilchrist Haas.
Each one with its own blank macadam,
its faults, its inscrutable laws.