memoirs of a poet

Does the highest star know
Its descendants are squabbling,
Over,
Whether or not to name it
logic or beauty?

When the scientist tells the poet
That it is made up of a muck of that funny stuff:
Hydrogen (H, Atomic Number: 1, Electronic Configuration: 1s1)
Helium (He, Atomic Number: 2, Electronic Configuration: 1s2)
Does s(H)e not find, in (H)er gladdest muse, trillions of little things to also call art?
I learn the intricacies of creation—and I get to see Him everywhere.
Poetry spins from my fingertips—blood. blood vessels. the cephalic vein. the basilic vein.
those nerves, I don’t get anymore.
And, does (He) forget it was that same speck of dust borne from the greatest star,
Putting approval in (He)is pocket and Galaxy in his reason.

We stay titled in our idiocy,
Meanwhile, the poles are indifferent and it
murmurs down to earth:
“What are the questions you wish to ask?”