You orbit your own sun,
butting your head against
the hot bulb of my kitchen.
You might smash the glass,
light pouring out for you
to swallow whole. But
there is method. You need
a fixed point to guide you
over fern & earth, right?

When a city of insects rises
& makes for the open door
I’ve left, they’ll find you,
behind the cupboard,
lacquered in dust, slapped
by the pale moon-white
of my palm, the fire you tasted
long gone, by then
you’ll be someone else entirely.