Leaving behind shirt, screen, eyes. Bringing along fear, worry, wonder. A half-hearted fence that still hides in the shadows. Search lights pointed at a playground with no swings. Darkened dead-ends with only the neighbors' lamps on. Moon outshining all with its cold white cowrie shell. Before you realize it was darkest right by your home. Lying down, thinking not of England but of the stars. Framing a narrow sliver of sky, carved by your knife. Moonlight, searchlight, the small twinkling overhead. A spark! (or a jet?) (can't say for sure) Exhaustion overtakes, chaining you to the driveway by (tent city) caressing you with the cool warmth of mild California (yellow smoke) summer weather while the night bugs sing you the song (is it truly home) of the stars; the longer you listen the more the tune (if you never stay there?) becomes clear, the sky brightens, the secrets - freed Another one! This time, real. Swift turtle's got tail. (your mind rattles) (full of words) so you come back in trading starlight for a backlight struggling to approximate the phase of your stars
