We considered our star, but never disaster,

the singular joy of sputter and fizz,

what did it matter what might not come after
the sauerkraut whine of a nuclear blaster

the space the tooth left, the kiss au revoir.

We considered our star, considered disaster

that tore open love’s cloaks and left them in tatters.

Keen bumblebee’s sting, and wasp’s repertoire

taught that it mattered what chatter came after.

Like the blindfold eye, the black-cloth shatter,

the tick’s Lyme prick, the fall’s chilly gnarr,

we learned our star was a joy ride disaster,

our inkling’s nod faded farther and faster

than our gas tank’s last gasp, or unstrung guitar.

After the dull-rusted ball-peen hammer

has shattered and scattered our befuddled memoir,

our star’s not the same, now hissing disaster,

and yes! Oh yes, nothing comes after.