The carbon cycle

There's nothing I can do to keep the stars we counted fusing forever.
I can't channel nature's charming elegance
into a single point, as the great poets do.
I can't live on burnished wheat alone.
So I built myself a house out of the remnants
of this bluish dreamscape that last spring's
nuclear explosion sullied but couldn't sear.
It took such a surreal asterism for me to see
that a window is just a stripped wire.
Through the slanted glass, I can watch
the sea fall into the declining horizon,
the church of destruction, and feel afraid.


Your hand touches my shoulder:
One day the stardust inside of us
will rediscover its will to burn
and build out of our hearts a fire
that can melt the struggle off our love,
making it pure again.