Nothing is written
In a couple of hours, it will start all over again,
The stars will lean down and stare from their faceless spaces,
And the moon will boot up on the black screen of the sky,
humping toward God-knows-what,
And we, with our pinched mouths and pinched eyes, the next morning
Will see its foot print like a slice of snow
Torn off over Mt.Caribou,
Looking for somewhere else to be born.
CHARLES WRIGHT
