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The Stars

WE ALL SEE SOMETHING DIFFERENT

WHEN WE

LOOK AT

THE SKY

 

Yvonne Lin

Meniscus of streetlights drifts like duckweed
along the rims of my eyes. Languid
flickering. For hours. Symphonic.


White-hot. In each
shattered mirror on the pavement.


Mold eats silver.


Eats air.         Eats dust.         Eats wood.
Eats grass.         Eats breasts.         Eats leather.


        Eats the four of cups. 
        Eats velour and weathered rugs.


Eats envy.         Eats time.         Eats cash.


        Shits grain. Shits watercolor splotches.


Excretes blue raspberry effluvia.


In mossy dark where music puddles.
The refrain goes. Now
there’s no more winter like this.
Which is to say.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner.


Flash. Fermata.


People walked their turtles through Parisian arcades in 1839.
The year before, a scientist at École Centrale deciphered cellulose.
         But enough about the world on fire.


Moonlit—even you swell into surface.
Now there's no more winter like this.

 

 

 

 

Yvonne Lin wrote this poem in Caroline Rayner's Moon Class.

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