light shines upon junk
as if to find a man, a woman
there, a tooth-pick
through her, getting thee
gristle out, that piece of
animal in there.

you hand me the money
and i give you the
swizzle stick. you ask
for a plastic monkey
hung on the edge.
i skewer the
cherry and open it
for you. it's GLOWING.

you turn to stone
shortly after, shaking
like a silver birch
being cried about. OH
you say and check
the map, run your fingers
down my polar caps,
out and over into space-
my dark matter.

Superman put his hand
in the fire to get the
glasses, but you won't.
yours is in your pocket,
clutching at the
diagram you've drawn,
cold yet safe like milk,
of a solar system
intractable,
where you are called sun.