Stars that die for people that live

Eyes to the light

at the end of the tunnel

see no shade

and are taken away from here

anywhere but here

right now at 8 in the morning

during rush hour

that is quite slow

and dead

when I am alive

but not for long

at this rate

because the subway is a glowworm

where the tunnel is a light again

and I’ve made a mistake

of walking into it

*

Love is

a scabby thing

of the past

defined in what was

and mostly what wasn’t

like a haze on the mirror

after a shower

that leaves nothing but

you in the cold

and see how dirty

the glass remains,

though it could just be you

*

The stars are old and dying

while we’re young and living;

under their darkening light

we are indestructible,

bright flashes dazzling

with wit and hunger

and jealousy and sadness

and all there is in this world

and out of it too