by Andrew Broadous
If I rush fast enough into the oily black
night, I could still catch falling stars before
they graced the sod with their swift and
I could cap them in mason
jars like so many fireflies I once
witnessed in D.C., when the raw
light of dreams first wandered into my
life. For hours they tap-danced in the
deep sheets of sky while summer
tipped its favorite hat and crickets
held their breath.
And the stars quietly
appeared, their bright secret unfolded—
a story of death long before I could
scarcely wish upon their winking eyes
like the small creatures of the dark.
But, still, I run, arms outstretched, as
the hunter after the food of his table,
the wild believer, the child aching for
the sweet milk,
the food of his dreams.