A cold wind blows as she looks with troubled
eyes upon the newly fallen snow; she cries a little
for he who sits on the corner
as if he knew her, as if she knew him.
Star's old light mourns a world ten years past;
new light knows not what's ten years gone;
she admires stars of present black
upon a crowded street alone.
And all those passing on the street—
Dante knows where they reside—
shrug their shoulders, avert their gaze:
they hope St. Peter is on their side.
She glances once more from weathered face
to eyes of glass and eyes of coal.
Her star closes in to become a hole:
a cynosural tear for a long lost soul.
NS ‘08
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