This adobe is no protection against the flossy sweep of stars that in recent nights burn pinprick holes in my skin, mostly in the skull despite my orange stocking cap, hunter's orange so you won't get shot by other hunters, a color the stars readily ignore with beams of white fire. O stars, you forsaken suns. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH by WILLIAM COWPER ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 13. ON LYRIC POETRY by MARK AKENSIDE BRITANNIA TO COLUMBIA by ALFRED AUSTIN UNTEACHABLE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO PRINCE CHARLES by ROBERT BURNS SPRING FANTASIES: 1. MAY DAY IN MARCH by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |