Sit with me
as long-dead stars
touch us from
their empty graves,
not yet having realised
their own demise.

I will hold you
in near-empty husk,
weightless anchor,
under cold,
black-bruised sky.

Look up at the hollow moon as I
breathe in emptiness
and allow myself, piece by piece,
to escape
into the never-never.

Cry a little.
Your tears will water
the scabbed and broken earth.
A poppy will grow.

But I’ll not see it
through cracked clay eyes.