Desert

The sky is rabid with stars,
A sick, blue stew
Curdling with salt rocks,
A squirm of counterpane
Tickled with rips,
A puncture full
Crunching spill
Pucker of pips.
The stars annihilate
the dark sweep.
No Artemis, no arrow poised,
No subtle scythe
or fattened pie.
Just a rabble,
A ricochet,
rocketed and raucous
A shining, whining
Many eyed
chorus.