• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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On Seeing a Falling Star…

I wish I could preserve
my world in a jar:
mountains and lakes, blue skies,
and a honeybee;
why not? even a fly…
and a muddy puddle
(who doesn’t like one?)
to stomp into and blotch
everything outside—
scary ghosts of the past,
fears of the present,
the revolt of Nature
through water and fire,
the sick areola
of a dying red sun.