The stars don’t
stay o-
pen like they used to
all night, twenty-four-hour service. They loiter
on,
but their doors don’t
slide
open like they used to,  
photon
deluge dis-
stilled,
quiver faint as love. Pin-
bright
delta.

The boy stubs
out
a smoke. If he is no long-
er in love with you,
here,
where dull asphalt
sky
sets, let it
be only
be-
cause
he doesn't buy these
stars
like he used to.

Unfixed
in a squint slant-
wise
through pink cotton smog,
stars
blink
and
    dim
like tooth-
     gapped
signs.