We could’ve stayed up until the crickets fell asleep,

until whispers of

those who complain about dry rain stopped.

It’s filthy in here, the way rain water

collects dirt off tire treads,

coating the boots of 30-somethings

in teddy bear coats.

Let’s stop staring into the fire,

picking at busted lightbulbs,

barefoot on broken glass.

It’s the brick outside of the windows,

narrowing and asphyxiated,

like a fawner lacking zeal.

Who buries a dead star, or keeps its accounts

passcode protected?

Who buries the star?

Coping by way of scenarios, the plotline of an eloped soul

puts memories tucked transient

in small spaces.

You’ll need a collection of

handwriting samples, because I am not regular,

hardly average.

And we could’ve stayed up until the moon turned blue

or at least once,

until skin dusts the air

until winds become vapid with no roots to grasp at

no earth to stand solid,

that is to say

no fruition in the aftermath.

For whoever looks into the sky,

and the sky back,

will have an all-knowing internal truth that

the star buries herself,

into the black,

the deep thrall of

selfish pits.