STARS AND INK
By Kit Brookman
Nothing about the universe is peaceful,
and nothing about a poet’s brain is, either.
Both are tracts of light-shot ink,
a fusion-studded soup that stretches on
until it collapses in on itself
like sticks of ash.
Nothing about the universe is peaceful,
and nothing about a poet’s brain is, either.
Both are tracts of light-shot ink,
a fusion-studded soup that stretches on
until it collapses in on itself
like sticks of ash.