by Catherine Simpson
Tonight, the sky its plummy texture
Is especially dear to me, and you let me
Look at you and understand the
Singularity of your being, unlike
Anything before or since.
Tonight, I look at the stars and pity them.
The more they burn the faster they die.
How I burn makes me live beyond myself.
Tonight the wind curls soft and salty against
My cheek, with peculiar mournful joy.