Note from the Author: This is the last in a series of poems written during my time at Hollinsummer. It's a found poem, which means I cut apart other things to get this weird thing. Enjoy...and no, I have no idea what it means or what it is about.
How powerful the stars,
and unlucky
to not be the voice of infinite space.
The emptiness of their beautiful eyes,
only watercolor: a needle in memory.
Names in water, bourbon, and red wine.
Sympathetic with earth,
they billow and gather each other
into iridescence, the shape of a flame.
The seventh one,
folding egg whites into batter,
is half in love with death, some boundary
that’s not dangerous.
A cache of letters about
life and thought and friendships
with moons and bears and owls.
Why parties, anyway?
The stars.
Note from the Author: This is the last in a series of poems written during my time at Hollinsummer. It's a found poem, which means I cut apart other things to get this weird thing. Enjoy...and no, I have no idea what it means or what it is about.
