I Am Not This Head

This is the mess that is left
When a star bursts, big as the sun

Shrunk the size of a small town,
Time lost to fugue states, a curse

And a gift seen from the point
Of the cliff by the sea left

By all that was wet to turn
To a vast pan of brown sand,

As seen from the point of view
Of one of the threads spun out

Through the night. What is not dark
Is what fire eats; what is not

Burned is not what you want now.
Ash. The seas have all turned ash,

But I am not sad for that.
This is a great gem, this loss,

This plain’s star-shaped scorch at night.
This is the mess that is left.