made of sun itself:
red converse on black tarmac, running whipfast to god-knows-where
on a Saturday in mid-July.
blasting Lizzo on a crappy tapedeck
as the sunset bleeds itself crimson across the horizon.
they're pretty and they all know it.
they toss their hair like stallions when they laugh at a clever pun,
or at the folly of an attempt at wooing them; they
are far smarter than you'd guess, but vain.
who could blame them?
are danger and beauty,
until they wink out, bright and terrible and far too soon,
like the last breath of a dying star.