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We forget about stars, until, one night,
a flamer shoots by, arcs over our shoulder
into a frozen lake.
I grab the arm of my companion,
say oh, look, a shooting star,
but he’s talking about Heidegger, or
Gramsci. Even though it’s cold,
his cheeks are flushed,
he’s too far gone for stars.
Will I notice when planet Mercury explodes,
radioactive dustballs engulfing my deck chair?
I might be eating cheese and crackers,
feeling that the world is fine,
when BAM! The sky is full of a million
white hot pieces.
In the moment it takes to fry
I’ll notice he’s still talking.
All I'll have time to think is