There were other skies to reference, he knew.
He could run to the Pawnee sky
on finding his own sky meaning nothing.
But would he find the Pleaid's seventh star?

An open sky, he thought,
indifferent to measurement,
Pale--of another dream--
from a galaxy's edge.

If only I could measure, he thought,
these quadrants of my desire.
And name them for what they are
above, or beside,
inside-out stellar attachments.
The bold sketch of their composure

And yes,
find someone to enter by the gate
that is the worth of naming.