July Sunset
Here I am. I’ve been retooled. My leather’s hammered on the inside to look like stardust, jewels or firechips strayed from a metalsmith’s ignited hand. Outside I’m cool and smooth, sopped in light, propped here in the glare before dark. My father’s gone under yesterday’s rain. My mother is climbing her frayed rope to the Milky Way. She’s hoisting her sails for the dry-eyed galaxies.