I write to get all of the words in the back of my head down onto paper, into the pulp that once belonged tot he squirrel that my parents named Uncle Harry, the name of the boy of my first true love,
I lay under a night sky
That wraps me in its careful care
A most personal construction
A hemispherical spindle
In which I am the pole
Maybe somewhere else
The stars would be blue and red and orange
But here we only see them as yellow