It's late in the evening and the world is winter
and bare-treed. She goes to the window, where
at home it was sage and yucca or some other
pretty ****. But here it has yet to be classified:
it's just bark, stem, seed. And at home the stars
would yawn into being, star by star; rubbing,
stretching, blinking. But here they are one, and
they always come late. Their light they withhold
as if lying in wait, so it's dark till the moment...
she's not quite aware. She just wrinkles her nose,
looks up,
and it's there.