Night Drifted Through Heaps Of White Stars
spilling into space where a billion light years
by Charles Chaim Wax
yearned for understanding
but not possible, the tender mind
too fragile to witness even ordinary death
without that famous promise
but more than grains of sand or leaves
these stars burning and burning
into a final bit of frozen dust drifting
all this before souls wept
and I never could believe that either
as a gust of wind blasted out of the North.
I felt cold.
It would snow here
long before it ever snowed in Brooklyn.