Phosphorescent star shapes
Beam their cookie-cutter beams
Of pale green outer space
Against a ceiling.
I stare,
And I wait.
I might be waiting for
One to jump
Real rocket flare
For a sad wish.
I might be waiting for
The tape to give,
Letting one loose,
Ninja-star neon
In my left eyeball.
I might be waiting
For nothing at all.
I might just be looking
At an 11-year-old’s starry night
Of plastic space shapes
And nothing at all.
Laid out sacrificial not-saint
On meditative Persian rugs,
You are less.
Thread spins hair knots
Of not-saints deep into
Not-saint rugs of meditation,
And you are less.
8:00 PM coffee
Soaks Persian tendrils,
Matting down mats
Of even less.
Maybe
If your eyes bulged,
There would be more than
Old genie lamps filled with espresso,
And carpets that can’t fly due to
Not-saint dead weights.
