Barns Are Painted Red Because of the Physics of Dying Stars: 2

— Rowan Quince Buckton

like the constellations      I’ve been too predictable      everyone’s waiting for morning
I’ve tried all the usual pretending:      maybe I’ve just been made hungry      I’d say I was
insatiable      but aren’t we all animal      the birds have been calling stories backward
we haven’t been listening      outside the sky is on   repeat      barns are painted red
because of the physics of dying stars      there is no such thing as certainty   but I keep
looking for safety      and small comforts      the lopsided bird’s nest we left   in
the garden just in case   the caterpillar’s unexpected tuft of persimmon      I am less
awful than I could be      I’ve never stopped saying I’m sorry


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