So long as we haven't caught a falling one, our fascination remains.
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The first few poems I wrote were filled with, if not obstructed by stars. So are the ones I have yet to write.
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In a short film I saw this afternoon, a kid was sweeping stars from the moon. I inhabited his world and left as soon as the credits rolled.
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On my way home. Even going out on a Saturday to take a break from the hectic workweek has become duty. The night's made darker by the stormy weather. Lamps on the highway are burning a pale orange. Dull guides, these low lights.
Top Shelf
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