We like to point precisely at wife
Flickering with saint a little dimly,
Not too bright for his effulgence.
We like to show the milk spilled
In the sky’s highways carelessly,
Our space vehicles lost in them.
We like to see boy on king’s lap.
A step mother pushes him away
And now flickering star material.
We have not done with pointing
To a wide eyed child of disbelief.
Our eyes are lost in spilled milk.