I am looking for a pick-axe

a long one with a thick handle
one to chip my way
through the asphalt covering

I want to hear crickets
tall grasses at my heels
the shift of sand
the suck of mud


this is what I think about
wandering San Diego at night
the stars, especially,
are quiet and dull
barely audible for the city-lights

there are no pick-axes
so I look for a dark place
a hole in the city
to fall on my knees
scraping them on glass
aluminum cans and
gum-covered concrete

to offer all this to the sky
where stars are said to shine
pouring their light downwards

but after hearing my confession
as I rise and head home
I think stars might pull, too

like this