writing like looking at stars

The words are too big for me
and the world is too big for me
the city too big and introspection is like lying
 (punctuate as you will)
on the beach at lake michigan
with the stars spread like a puzzle I have not solved
is the secret to count or to find patterns?
look for changes?  if I think no thought
let the light enter my eye
will I understand
the universe
which is so immediate, and so old
don't you find that? everything so immediate and so old - one's one history too rich to remember
but all the cascading now
 like a busy subway station
  where the people have lives
   but seem like bowling pins
    or stars, of course, (you'll appreciate the repetition)
     whirling in and out of vision, understanding
    before you
 understand them.
Write them down?
Who am I to
words too like the stars and lives
falling in and out of use, of memory, of hearing, understanding,
 lines short and long made beautiful or ugly by
unknown alchemy
lead to gold, the dense chaos of the world
to another dense chaos, soft to soft, black to light,
there's more lead in the stars than gold
and they die for their alchemy too
consuming and releasing their most precious at the end
which cities might do
which men probably don't
it's hard not to ramble
because the ideas are large and expansive
again like skies perhaps
I can not find the puzzle
to solve it
but I lie on my back
searching