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I only know one or two constellations from my night sky
maybe more, but I can’t hardly see any of the stars anymore.
Perhaps a new urban system of star navigation is needed
one that makes allowances for missing stars, disconnected constellations
perhaps made up of just one or two directional points
the most important ones that are always there.

Perhaps each city will need its own chart, dependent on the level
of light pollution and air pollution blocking out swaths of space
or two or three charts to a region depending on what to expect of the season
and how much cloud cover to expect.

Most of our constellations were written for sea travel anyway
and not necessarily for new lovers to try to pick out
from the front seat of a car, parked high in the hills
like we are, squinting through the smog we can’t seem to climb past
no matter how many times you restart the engine
to drive us to a higher point.



Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Big Muddy, The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, Ugly Girl, and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy. She has been a featured presenter at Write On, Door County (WI), North Coast Redwoods Writers’ Conference (CA), and the Spirit Lake Poetry Series (MN). Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press) and I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.).
Current Issue
18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
Wednesday: Overlap: The Lives of a Former Time Jumper by N. Joseph Glass 
Issue 11 Mar 2024
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