Fresh out of inspiration,

I seek the shooting stars–

see three bright slashes

in infinite distance

and several pretty close

(the latter, moths, which streetlamps

make almost comparable).

A cloud of spiderweb

blurrily catches light

between electric wires.

My heart ticks against my ribs,

quivers in the triangle

beneath my breastbone.

I am a’rhythm with the crickets.

Another, I gasp–

someone has taken

a penknife to the heavens!


I return, warm with gratitude,

to a room that smells

like a holy day.

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