We cast aspersions on malignant stars,
nary looking within—as if the heavens
bore the weight of our own wandering,
as if complaint itself could absolve
what we ourselves have wrought. The fault
lies not above but here, yet ever more
we search the winter sky for something
distant to indict, to carry
what is ours alone, when all along
the icy vault will not bear our blame—
only our faces, turned upward, unseeing, away.
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