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