Traces of all we dreamily seek
we catch in burning bits from the stars.
They roll in our palms, dark stones too weak
to reascend if thrown.
Beyond Mars
drift pitted, hurtling, gun-black ores
that flare like matchheads struck and seen
as they cross night air.
Sometimes they shatter
above our roofs like pods and scatter
unnoticed dust on our fading green
and restore worn fields with stellar matter.