REQUIEM FOR THE STARS

7 9 R R E Q U I E M F O R T H E S T A R S S U S A N B A R B A after Mallarmé Black hole, where the stars go when they die, no region of my brain illuminates your name. Black hole, the circuitry goes dark, fumbling for metaphors to grasp how gravity absorbs a galaxy. Except the white page and its hieroglyphic scars, the stars of black ink drunken by the sheet, white sheet magnetic in its pull, absorbing finished thoughts that end in words. O words, without you what would be the last? And what would last? A void, an endless night whose mother is that galaxy of time; the milky way, our astral address, ephemeral as the imprint of a kiss. ...