But You Birthed Us, So There’s That

That a name means, that it signs,
Makes it strange, in that the rest
Of the world, by far the most—

Moons and stars and dense black holes—
Don’t seem to sign at all. Oh,
There’s facts in them. Lots of waves,

Fields, points to count. Things go boom.
But this is known just to us,
Just to the signs, counts—our thing.

You’d think names would be well smeared
On the skies. You’d think it so
Hard that you did, do, think so.

You still con the stars for signs,
For a sign signs aren’t just yours.
Well, we aren’t. Don’t fret. We’re ours.