Tonight I feel the stars are out
to use me for target practice.
I don't know why
they zero in like old
business, each a moment of blood
unraveling forgotten names.
This world of dog-eat-dog
& anything goes.
On the black string of days
there's an unlucky number
undeniably ours.
As the Milky Way
spreads out its map
of wounds, I feel
like a snail on a salt lick.
What can I say? Morning's crow
poses on a few sticks, a cross
dressed in Daddy's work shirt--
how its yellow eyes shine.
It knows I believe
in small things.
I dig my fingers into wet dirt
where each parachute seed pod
matters. Some insect
a fleck of fool's gold.
I touch it,
a man aking for help
as only he knows how.
(1981) Yusef Kommunyakaa