Seven Winters

plane

These seven winters after (eight years, nine…),
the contrails still appear each night and shine
until the sun rolls over Brooklyn. Pure
stigmata on a gaping aperture.
Perhaps a scar that heals. The curving spine

of palliative crystals is a sign
across the cracking firmament: “Divine
Recalcitrance.” How else could we endure
these seven winters. After

all, it gains us nothing to assign
our stars the form of engines in decline
above a waterway where force majeure
emblazoned the agenda, de rigueur
before the ferry reached the harrow line
these seven winters after.

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