follow the morning star
Tell yourself it’s only a sliver of sun
burning into your chest, a cap of gold
or radiant halo justly worn by
the righteous at heart—
then take it off, stomp it, rip out the seams.
Wherever a wall goes up, it smolders.
Gate or street corner, buried canal—
you’ll catch yourself before crossing,
stumble over perfectly flat stones,
skirt the worn curb to avoid a cart
rumbling past three centuries ago.
You stop to gaze up at the softening sky
because there is nowhere else to look
without remembering pity and contempt,
without harboring rage.