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.