Selected Poems [Volume: 7(1988), pp. 211-216]

The star's inconsequential.
It has no impact on the weather, fashion, final score,
governmental shake-ups, moral crises, take-home pay.
No effect on propaganda or on heavy industry.
It's not reflected in a conference table's shine.
It's supernumerary in light of life's numbered days.
What's the use of asking
beneath how many stars man's born
and beneath how many in a moment he will die.
A new one.
"At least show me where it is."
"Between that gray cloud's jagged edge
and the acacia twig that's right there to the left."
"I see," I say.
THE PEOPLE ON THE BRIDGE
An odd planet, and those on it are odd, too.
They're subject to time but they won't admit it.
They have their own ways of expressing protest.
They make up little pictures, like for instance this:
At first glance, nothing special.
What you see is water.
And one of its banks.
And a little boat which is strenuously sailing upstream.
And a bridge over the water, and people on the bridge.
It appears that the people are picking up their pace
because of the rain just beginning to lash down
from a dark cloud.
The thing is, nothing else happens.
The cloud doesn't change its color or its shape.
The rain doesn't increase or subside.
The boat sails on without motion.
The people on the bridge are running now
exactly where they ran before.
It's difficult at this point to keep from commenting:
This picture is by no means innocent.
Time has been stopped here.
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