Not to love the simple sun
but the classification of all suns
and the alert, hand-given, the alert of rats,
given to me by my brother.
His nightly hands constellated in the air,
my brother the keeper of signs.
At his hospital they are always awake
watching the stars fade one by one,
enormously decorative stars—they fade!
And rolling over in his bed
my brother, the thought, my brother
asks if I will remember them;



what?



The stars infinitely going.
Their terraces bombed.
Who will sing of them when all is finished?
Who will carve them into black snow?