Crouched beneath a rising moon I see them
strewn beneath the Firethorns: fallen stars, devil-red
and smelling of bees’ wings.
Without a second thought I gather an armful
and drop them in my basket, visions of her requital
glistening inside my ego.
I wouldn’t! A voice, sweet as a fig, sings out to me
rushing like an unstoppable wave of magma
through a congeries of shadows.
They may be beautiful but they are dying, it sighs
as the rain falls, a thin drizzle of mockery
that clings to my skin like alamine.
I hurry indoors, eager to lay my gift at her feet
but those luminous rubicund orbs have melted
into figments of dark matter.
Back in the garden a soft green light cools the soil.
Only night birds now, picking the flesh from the last
few fragments of starbone.
