Little Elegy

Even the stars wear out. 

Their great engines fail. 

The unapproachable roar 

and heat subside.

And wind blows across

the hole in the sky

with a noise like a boy 

playing on an empty bottle. 

It is an owl, or a train.

You hear it underground. 

Where the worms live 

that can be cut in half 

and start over

again and again.

Their heart must be

in two places at once, like mine.