but I bought it anyway, thinking I could bring
it back by blowing fire into its points, but not
about what might transpire if it flared while
I was holding it, shining through my palm.
Then I showed it to a blue-haired woman on the bus.
Why do I buy things that are dying? At first, I worried
she’d be scared I was having an episode, but she pulled
a moon from her pocket, and two cups of steaming
green tea and offered a cup to me. I happened to have
a jar of wildflower honey in my duffle. We drank the
sweet tea until her stop. When she tugged the cord
to get off, lemon drops fell from the folds of her yellow
hoop skirt. Children ran to her with tin shovels and sand
pails, scooping up the sugary treats as fast as they could.
When they were done, the candy store across the corner shut
its doors for December. After, I bought a red convertible car.
Now, I fly it over oceans, gathering dying stars, arousing
them with ardor, flinging them into the water to light the sea.