table of contents
table of contents — poems

To Think

To think that the God
      who makes us die
lifts us up to see
      the starry light
so there are stars in heaven
      and stars in the brain
that becomes dirt —

and everything goes on:
      the busses pull away,
the steps fade, the night
      darkens on the town.
In the suburban lot,
      moist between my fingers,
yes, just this earth.