But stars aren’t cold, no matter the distance, no matter whatwe want to believe. The coldest one we’ve yet found is stillwarmer than a cup of coffee left sitting for a minute.There’s an iceberg frigidity we inject into our gods—something like the Arctic Ocean, something like a paradeof the dismembered bodies of glaciers. I rememberseeing the scattering fleets of ice and thinking churchesfloating out into space. So hello universe! My nameis temporary and my bones are made of you, youwith your far mountaining nebulas, you with your firesthat have shown us the way, that show us how there is no wayexcept where we already dream of going. Octoberand the nights are growing cold. October and the nightsare full of stars saying there is nowhere left to go.