hands press stars like grapes,
make themselves into cups:
long draught from burnt fingers, burning still.
In a churlish Q, my fingers cross
and scrape skin from the bone;
these are the bones I remember,
but-- stretched-- warped.
Floorboards in the summer,
bulging and black;
the doors will not shut,
nor my eyes,
nor the stars,
swollen and stuck in the sky.
They cry and I eat up their mewls,
peddle their tears for memories and
the sweet things I never had:
there are too many places to fall asleep in the sky,
too many nighttimes, too many empty stomachs,
empty beds, empty books, empty rhythms
waiting to be something I could
forget.
I lick the starlight off my fingers after each purchase,
bottle and cork and slip it
into pockets, hands, sleeping mouths.
The quiet nights I wish I had,
the weight of sound and light,
the unexpected softness
of thunder.
Spoiler
Alright. I've had just about everyone mention the "churlish Q" thing, so I thought I'd clarify. In meditation,there are a number of different ways to carry your hands. One of the more commonly thought of ways is softly pinching together your middle finger and thumb, to make an O. However, I have use that, and made it relaxed, so that the index finger, when relaxed, curls in with your other fingers, and it instead makes a Q. I know it's a rather long explanation for something pretty basic, but it was more personal than anything I was really expecting anyone to get. 
