by Amanda Stovicek

At night the sky runs away 
with itself, pulling tiny threads
of red into rainbow, stretching gold against
the darkness that holds you. At night the sky
shifts, lets loose all that it’s knitted--
tapestry of violent delights and violent 
creation--stars tossed like glass in the arc 
of shatter. At night the sky never 
imagines the fade, the edge of everything 
rushing back from prism to cold blue. 
All that you are is inverse:
a spool running thread back on,
the coil of a spring returning taut in machine
universe. One moment the shadows
stitch fever like blazing stars, the next
the unsung seams are crumpled on your snag
shivering against frozen catalyst. You are just
blue, spectrum and collapse, universe end.