I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.

The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.

Rats live on no evil star