Season of Stars
so I got all the notes, brochures,
marginal art, and went to a type of
wooden rocket, or a cabin in the woods.
It was like camping when I dabbed the ceiling with my thumb.
Breaks in the distance of my light trance, but wonderful,
your cherry belly. I moved, for example, I chased the day away
from adults who were particularly elegant,
though a little stiff and calculated. Do I smell smoke?
Is this a reason to panic? I prefer to use
things at a distance from my face which protects me
from the explosions of everything in the world that confuses me.
Tenderness is a problem I have with the world,
and not the details of the people in the world.
I love to pick up the pieces of my life and put them
end to end like a series of bright blue dominoes, each
deep fat. Fear makes you tight, looking to bring the heaviest
star to this season of savage stars.