Stories About Ourselves

Blue Christmas lights

tell us stories about ourselves

I saw you biting yours nails 

through a pane of glass in that restaurant

late night conversations when

you told me there were no stars

just satellites



And I lay down in the shirt you used

as a towel when there were none 

left and that the stars were a felt

blanket draped over tabletops of a

smoke seeping factory (?) gestures



Bent puzzle pieces we are

small cities tall buildings

this glass flipper is giving me blisters

now

I'd prefer not