You like the chase, oh pretty little thing.
How precious are those freckled fiery wings?
Whimsical as you are—going forth but not beyond,
Teasing to fly backwards yet refuses to be touched.
Hence i intend a pun: you’re always the catch.

As I looked out of my
bedroom window,
two sparkles of light
equal in brightness hover
in the distance.

One, bursting forth
from a slab of rock holding
visions of a woman, a fridge,
the opening and closing of doors,
a drunkard, a mute, a broken jar
the booming screams of a child,
the thunderous fall of a chair.

In the second, farther still,
an ocean of bright plasma.
Swirling with great force
between white birth
and red death. Flickering
with great intention then
thinning out into
nothingness.