alas
we are all stars
in this combustible
universe. stars combust
but can the universe
implode? tear fabric of the
galaxy open, leaking
shimmer everywhere
as the universe dies.
who do we call on when
the fabric of our own
cosmos tears? when
the moon stops orbiting,
when the sun, star god,
decides, It’s Time.
who?
who do we call?

call me crazy. the moon spits
in the sky and all i can hear
is the deadly voice of illogical
magic. chasing the high like
high tide chases low. my borders
break down. the divine becomes
the divined, secret messages for
me alone in the rushing water.
i listen. i revel in the language
of the dark. 3am sneaks easy
into my skull. i take
the bitter pill every morning or
else i lose it all through
the stomach lining. keep me in
the stable. turn my music down.
bring the stuttering moon to
my hands so i can touch its face.

in your hands a blue bag
you ***** into it on the austere
white sheets—
wearing a band of flowers
spelling out your name
around your wrist, i
watch your aching body
thrashing
and the IV lines like
thin tentacles as you
heave and heave. the doctors
try 7 drugs. none work.
you keep turning inside out.
i
i know
i can’t do anything
if neither medicine nor god
can stop your pain -
how could i? what miracle
can i possibly mold that outstrips
creation?