I catch on my tongue bright shooting stars,
melting pools of white glow, still slow
to lose their form. They crunch when I chew them.
The gods shook out the stars, brushing them away
from the night's carpet, beating them harshly
with an old gnarled stick.
There is no repository for light such as this --
it fades too fast, glitter dulls and the acrid
sulfur smell wafts away.
Stars don’t taste much like snow.
They are more like sour mints, lemony
wintergreen and sunburst flowers.
You aren't sure if you really like it, yet --
you always want more.

My jaw hurts from hanging wide open, tongue
outstretched, star candy settling in.
Cathedrals tremble.
The stars fall everywhere, star dots
speckling the earth, prickling the skin,
crunching between my teeth.