The sun irritates me with hope.
The trees copulate spilling vernal pools for miles -
there can be nightjars nestled among cattails, waiting.
Summer fireflies flash briefly then are screwed -

She cut herself on a wine glass shard last night -

we go rogue again.

We stare through thoughts and things. The sun is sad.

She’s  in headlights swallowing winter’s truth,
She’s dulled by the edges of your flickering emptiness,
She—like me—clinging to a fleeting fight

O swirling stardust we hold, forget us.

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