Man at Window
Not to love the simple sun but the classification of all suns and the alert, hand-given, the alert of rats, given to me by my brother. His nightly hands constellated in the air, my brother the keeper of signs. At his hospital they are always awake watching the stars fade one by one, enormously decorative stars—they fade! And rolling over in his bed my brother, the thought, my brother asks if I will remember them; what? The stars infinitely going. Their terraces bombed. Who will sing of them when all is finished? Who will carve them into black snow?