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.