The stars are dead By Jessica Bex
The stars are dead or dying as the golden ball glides below ,
peering at you as you hear your brother talk : swallow his infantile vowels
though they stick to your gullet ; touch the artifice of his forehead
with your thumb and pray ; echo his voice ; regurgitate his self in your image .
Outside your window , you see a church ahead with a clock instead of a bell :
wait for it to chime and contort into one .
The distance is a bridge between the two of you , as the moon drifts
somewhere up high , and a boy , even higher , is wrapped up in yellowed linens ,
larger than an elephant ’ s tooth , burning as a pyramid does in the midnight sun ,