As if there were set prices, these shadows

•

As if there were set prices, these shadows
—must be a market for scratched floors
charred from the crash, from shrapnel
and this window still on fire, pieces
unbelievably heavy, everywhere the sun
broken apart for cups, chairs, shadows.

I don't move—a few degrees closer
my skin begins to melt, knows the sun
doesn't want me back, not the counting
not the eyes, not the darkness
already closing in on all the other stars

—I don't leave this floor
though my shadow crawling off
starts from zero, without smoke
and under my eyelids the molten light
for later, for one night more
and the wingspread.