Between the doorway
and fireworks a year
is changing and all our
conceits, all our deceits,
are falling back to earth.

Melting in parallel they
are unjudged ,offering
no clues going forward.
Broadcast like seed on
hardened ground, they

are a coarse blueprint
of a place we thought
we knew, a place we
liked to call our home.
Remnants of fireworks

know nothing of stars.


Tony Noon