Rock Quarry

 I walk slower because of you--

Reminded to find the lichen

Wrinkled along the rock, ubiquitous

And varied, I think of the true

Colors of the rock. Tripe,

Really, my pretty words, my useless

Pleads. What is poetry, rife

With symbiotic metaphor, less

Substance than a single syllable

Laid from your lips with exquisite 

Care? Each of your words is like this:

A gift given so that I may treasure it.

Three stars on his belt

He sits on city roofs and longs to see 

The stars and something twists in his gut, pulls.

Tells him it should be different. Part of him 

Remembers what it was like to chase bears 

And sleigh dragons. When a star dies it goes 

Out in a blaze of glory. 

A gas giant, nebula, galaxy 

Of gas and light and destruction.

But here he sits on a city roof. He can't 

See the stars and part of him that burns 

Flickers in the vast darkness of space.

Star boy. You'll never know how I love you.