Stars are numbered precisely.
For the ones that promise most
we dream a band of homely planets.
The worst burn, burn, void matter.
*
Before the snow, the moon had a crown
(vacant circuit). Then, gilded cars and heads.
Now it’s all water and spray,
streetloads for walkers to stretch their steps on.
*
We are crystal at the river’s edge.
We refract everything in the lit sky,
scatter colours in the runnels of new-builds
where all the blinds are drawn.
*
Stars are numbered precisely. They are gas and fusion.
Their dimensions are all formulae. Their deaths
are terminology. Their distances are a line of noughts.
They seem snow, love.
See also Lights in the Sky