My Human Disguise.
For Michael Antman
How can something be older by virtue
Of simply being farther away than . . . .
And there the most unlikely shrouds the true,
Which is quite the same as what is human.
A woman doing dishes sees a star.
Steam rises and the boy is in his bed.
A small second star shines sooner by far,
She thinks — the night sky is a tangled thread.
She thinks — begin, starlight, to bless this home.
You’ve had long enough to see me see you
From infinite sparks in your eternal dome.
All must live. All. Must. Live. The old and new.
She rinses and dries her hands with a towel.
Lights off, the stars wince at her avowal.
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