Stars
The stars were falling kamikaze. We traced their arcs
in the black while you talked them down. We are stars
you say. Crescendos of bits thrown in fits, explosions
casting us adrift. No wonder we feel so jumbled
nothing quite fitting as fragments collide, make shapes
of us. Pieces and sparks all floating in veins. No-one
knows which direction so we keep still, feel the rushing.
Is this the feeling that means we’re alive?
We slept in a field in August. Warm grass stuffs noses.
The sky rests on our chest counting every rise and fall.
Waking crows draw lines above our faces. The sky
is closer than it ever was, but the stars are not.
I’ll look for the one you singled out and said think of me
remember how you told me it wouldn’t fall.
Zelda Chappel is a poet and general daydreamer living halfway between the city and the sea. Her work can most recently be found in Popshot, South Bank Poetry and Elbow Room.