Now that the colors have cleared and the stars are falling
and every street lamp
on Broadway and beyond is lit,
maybe the moon will open its big mouth and
swallow these broken stars, and I will write
a poem with light from my soul
that no one has seen before although
it's huge when compared with the universe.
Too bad the coming night worries shadows,
beneath the dripping fruit trees,
and illuminating a throughline to the
shooting star because who needs to
utter one more impossible wish?