Why the Sound of Stars Is Metallic
As heat, the thief you wake to
Not the first, of mice and—whispers
Who will carry radiators
While circumnavigating
Who will loosen ferules
When you prepare for meteoritic
Nights, our own imagining
Taken not by proportion—colorless
Like other valuables, crosses
Meltable on their strings
Who will gnaw each piece, toss
These lightweights to the sky
(A glue of mood, of glass eye)
And catch this child, flung
Imperfect seeds, planted in
A blackness—unopen, raw—
(Wider leading & beast filings)
A star further than touch-what-you-can
A depth you can hear in no palm
No, in a kinked chain of wrangling
No, in the triangle scrap of lesser crowns
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