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There, a little right
of Ursus Major, is
the Milky Way:
a man can point it out,
the biggest billionfold of all
predicaments he's in:
his planet's street address.
What gives? What looks
a stripe a hundred million
miles away from here
is where we live.
Let's keep it clear.
The Northern Lights
are not the North Star.
a blur, they cannot reassure us.
They keep moving - I think far
some glimmers of
the boreals to come:
they're modest pools
of horizontal haze, where later
they'll appear as foldings in the vertical,
a work of curtains, throbbing dim
(One wonders at
) The very sight
will angle off in glances or in shoots
of something brilliant, something
bigger than we know, its hints uncatchable
in shifts of mind .
it is again, the mind, with its
old bluster, its self-centered
is dimming, what is bright?
The spirit sinks and swells, which cannot tell
itself from any little luster.
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