By David Diaz
I wonder if the moon is made
of all the stars that crash into
the side of it. The ones that died
a thousands years ago
and no one ever noticed.
Just pieces of outside,
you and me, slamming into the belly
of the great reflective rock.
Standing with carafes of bottled
chemical from somebodies
garage, acid burning holes down
my esophagus, whittling a flute
so I can creak like crates when
flu season comes to settle in.
I stand beyond their porch,
feet set warmly in damp earth
staring up beyond the invisible
wall of fire that hugs our planet—
everything is there.
The stars still shine brighter
than the moon, hotter than
the sun, staring us
down from however many
billions of lightyears away,
over trillions-quintillions of days.
Other planets with nothing
doing something on their own.
Whining clocks rotating
over gaseous nausea while the sun
makes rounds and pulls magnets.
Comet breath hovered above
your coffee, blowing steam away
from swirls of cream and sugar:
little galaxies swirling in the foam
of an Arabica bean.
The smell of rot before breakfast
thickened on your tongue; dilute the
flavor only cause your stars
remain the same.