the colour of mirrors

from the windows

you can see them
out the left window that's shaped
like a square oval, just before
the plane dips too far down to
see them again.

if you were on the ground right
now, between sagging skyscrapers
and quick-footed people,
you could look up and squint
as hard as it is possible for your
eyes to squint, and the most you
would see through those
smoky curtains would be a small
sequin, or perhaps two.

but from above, you can see
the stars that never switch off, even
when the sun steals every ounce
of light from them.

you cannot see the stars
from the ground, but it's okay -
the city makes its own stars.

it's look like fragments of the sky
floated down, falling asleep
on top of a place that's always awake,
and the lights are glittering
from alleyway-craters
and smiling up serenely,
reminiscing in the soft light
of a billion lamps.

yes, if you just look out
of your left square-oval window,
while the smell of petrol
slips through the passengers,
you might see the stars
that rest on the ground -
stars that were scattered by
a human hand.

but be quick, i beg you,
because once the plane dips too far
down, head rocketing too fast,
wings burning, adults screaming
and children wondering why,
as the roar of your demise
creeps up on you,
there will not be another chance
to see those stars again.

the city makes its own stars.

perhaps it will make a couple more,
in your memory.