The Good and Terrible Stars
On a night, strong, like the bright scent of lemon: how wrong-headed
my obsessions, the need to be alone.
And how utterly necessary, otherwise, why live in a divided country?
I’m the detective and the thief: pulling in people, then hoarding space.
Standing, squinting at the distance: how much to acquiesce? To defend?
Standing in a burning field that’s also a tiny room. Even explaining
the conflict’s a rabbit trap, an ungrateful alibi.
Everyone’s tired, in different ways.
Everyone, driving in loops.
On a night, you might find yourself outside, away from the brightly-lit
party for a time. Inside, a door
about to shut. What clears your brittle path: looking back to the group,