It bled stars, clouds, and time—
but the black hole stole my sword,
blew stale cigarette smoke in my nose,
and snarled at me with a graveled tongue.
I was watered-down, decaffeinated,
I wanted only to recollect time.
I was stretched from the first century to the last.
The bleeding sky stretched out his hand,
shining silver, aching azure:
I touched his fingers, refilled my coffee cup with his stars,
and stitched the sky’s wound with a romance.