They will look back upon us and see us for idiots
looking for stars to do work we needed to do.
They will say the great conjunction
was not Jupiter and Saturn’s illusory closeness
but our own embrace of magical thought
in the face of the growing heat and disease
that took us down. They will say this
while shaking their heads at how
we ignored the mocking laughter
of the implacable science that runs the universe
as it rolled right over us. Our hatreds
spread like a plague even as a true plague
spread just as fast, as we choked the oceans and air
until we were choking as well. The Great Conjunction,
they will say, was not the doubled up light in the sky
but people down here, a black hole,
angry, scared, crowded
into one another so tightly
nothing could penetrate.
No light, no heat, nothing in there
but faith in the efficacy of crossed fingers,
crosses, and whatever the stars might say —
although the stars said nothing except
this one, dear people, is all on you.