It's easier to burn than melt…
that's why I'm standing so messy
in front of this smoke-stained sky.
The air is hot coffee
smoldering in my veins
since I can't face the ground
that trips me even at my best.
Wasting colors, don't worry
if the stars are just rhythms now
not explosions we can chase.
Chipped concrete is all I want coating
the nails I've waited too long to cut,
the eyes that break stares even when I want to hold them-
this cracked ground is my favorite part of skygazing.
I wish I could be simple but
this place is far from simple
so I breathe in the choking hazards
and take them as part of the view.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem stitches things that belong to the inner and outer worlds. Attention goes its own way, by its own rules, so it breaks off the long aspirational gaze. Looking at the ground beneath your feet belongs to the natural progression of stargazing. You find transitions that TIE grit and the grace together.