A new star has been discovered,
which doesn’t mean that things have gotten brighter
or that something we’ve been missing has appeared.
The star is large and distant,
so distant that it’s small,
even smaller than others
much smaller than it.
Small wonder, then, if we were struck with wonder;
as we would be if only we had the time.
The star’s age, mass, location—
all this perhaps will do
for one doctoral dissertation
and a wine-and-cheese reception
in circles close to the sky:
the astronomer, his wife, friends, and relations,
casual, congenial, come as you are,
mostly chat on earthbound topics,
surrounded by cozy earthtones.
The star’s superb,
but that’s no reason
why we can’t drink to the ladies
who are incalculably closer.
The star’s inconsequential.
It has no impact on the weather, fashion, final score,
government shakeups, moral crises, take-home pay.
No effect on propaganda or on heavy industry.
It’s not reflected in a conference table’s shine.
It’s supernumerary in the light of life’s numbered days.
What’s the use of asking
under how many stars man is born
and under how many in a moment he will die.
A new one.
“At least show me where it is.”
“Between that gray cloud’s jagged edge
and the acacia twig over there on the left.”
“I see,” I say.