For the dark inside your room, for the dark
ceiling stars, ghost green
glow on the desk where your first poem
lies on its back
singing pomegranates and gold bells.
Jar pencils, thin wood fingers
point sharp as absence
to the hole you punched in the wall
of your pink childhood.
Whose fault is this
where are you now?
In the unheaven
unblessed child wandering the alleys
of an unfamiliar city,
your room vacant now
daylight gathering in the stars.