I was plucking at my eyelashes as though petals grew there
and snapping bone structures
into uneven halves-
      giddy on the tilt of things being skewed
       I cut myself where the crossed bones
       met my crossed fingers-
tossed over my shoulder,
salt rubbed into the wound,
I looked up and saw the sky emptied of stars.
All that wishful thinking
(more like superstition, now, than cognition)
grounded on
absolutely
nothing.