Look at the Stars
There was a point
in my life
when I burned
every CD yellow.
Before this golden revelation
seized me by the knees,
you were a friend of a friend
and you kissed
my kneecaps
in the darkness of April.
It was then that I knew
those stars
weren’t blinking at me,
but shining for you,
which helps me see
when running
in the dark.
The crusty sop
of downtrodden foliage
feeds my hasty tennies
as I trudge
through wet-wastelands.
The five corners
of a trillion rusty leaves
yellow in the lampposts
elegantly inhaling
sulfur breaths.
A cheap glow
hesitates in the air
then dissolves in the cold
playing all around me.
I don’t love the
second friends once removed.
Didn’t appreciate the
multiple
goodbye mornings.
But I fancy those eight
hours in April
when you saw straight
through me
and I didn’t even shiver.
