Nothing you’ll find more orphan than the heart.
The dim mission of its reptile-eyed insomnia,
its nameless drive, its bulging catalytic beat.
The night sky wheels with the same fever, as if thrown
from a bowler’s hand with english on it. Orion.
Ursa Minor. You cannot constellate desire anymore
than you can braid cord from the tongue’s sinewed utterance
of a name, a name hallowed at night into the wind,
the wind tethered to the earth like flame to black spruce,
quartered and four years dried. Beargrass. Monk’s Hood Lichen.
Methuselah’s Beard. Old Man on the Mountain.
You take your bearings by a belt of pulsing stars.
You turn to reckon with the one that doesn’t move.
Polaris. Dog’s Tail. Leiðarstjarna. Nail. Mismar.
Reprinted from The Low Passions (W.W. Norton, 2019). Used with permission. All rights reserved.
The ALL Review is pleased to present our How to Live series, poems chosen to help readers navigate these difficult and rapidly changing times.
