Way over my head the ladle
that made astronomy tilts
as the shower of meteors
of which we have all been
warned comes to fruition.
 
It's glitter empties into
the black sea of darkness
flickering until each is
a dead bulb with a broken
filament.
 
I walk forward,
my attention wanders
long enough for
the deadly strike of
a spilled star not quite
incinerated on its way
down.
 
And so it goes,
another lonely poet
joins the society
of the dead
without the chance
to murmur one last
hackneyed metaphor.
-James C. Allen