December

 

Jesse Nathan

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We thrive in a narrow range.

Venus running right about 900° Fahrenheit

but down here it’s a gentle 17

afloat in a bag of winter

at the mouth of wind.

The icy breathing of it all

makes flour-fine stars, the flinty dipper

erect on its handle.

Arcturus, you old buzzard,

suspended and watchful,

one-time narrator of prologues,

you used to tell the farmers when to plant

and the mariners where to go

but what’ve you got to say now?

 

The universe I want to say stares

into my season. The stars clarify

like family traits in a face.

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