The other sky has its bright face on,

a full-bloom pincushion of burning nails.

On the earth, we are marked by red lights –

they hang on us like animals’ eyes –

red because a white light would blast the iris,

make it impossible to see anything

up there

in the deep, unfurling mess.


No one says anything.

Words have no purchase on the night,

they hit the sky and vanish like junk slipping into the sun.