Proxima

What bulbs defied my bargeboard,

And threw themselves from lines,

And burst into emancipated pieces

In a pile –

I do not care about them –

I only want for fire.

Your temperament’s medicinal,

Your volcanism, mild –

The answer to my prayers is what

Your Proxima provides –

I believe that Heaven’s low

And only You are high.

The window’s now benumbed

And marked by beetle-death and violet,

Transmuted into yellow lines

On paint roads for the termites –

The ledge beckons your foot back,

The room invites you home,

The once-and-future queendom of the bed is

Eating crumbs.

I would not prevaricate,

But prostrate –

Nothing could feel

Like feeling nothing else might.