The moon is doing that thing
where you can see the dark
parts of her body. Phantom.
Shadow takes spotlight. The stars,
if you unfocus, have pulses. Jupiter
rips the dark mechanism of sky.
Cornea. Light. You can tell fire
from a rock by the heartbeat. Heat
flutters. That's how to find
the planets in the night. It's hard,
to tell a meteor from a moth
against the streetlamp periphery.
Silhouettes. Still, the Perseids
persist. The crescent never
has been so slight before,
has it? The stars turn off
and on. Christmas garland
coiling the abyss. Blackness,
blackness, and then this.
The moon continues to forget herself.
Now she's all almost gone:
ash body of the cigarette.
I shouldn't say corpse.
I smoke everything I have to burn
today. Delete you
from the cell phone, the memory
of my kitchen.
The carpet, the window, the cats.