Stars

In the great pit of the green stomach
A thing of beauty, the man, not a thing of it
The thing, of it to the man
And in his hand was how he'd do it
Couldn't get through wanting to get through it
Just. . . couldn't do it.
And in the overflowing mirror of the river
His reflection did shake and quiver with blood
And there he disappeared
Never a good thing, only bullets hit his ears
Soft and sleeping sorrow is now of the sky, of the stars.