The One Remaining Star

Susanne Dubroff

There are mornings when I think of you
so steadily, what good is it to write?
Trust in its ragged wisps, too close to the abyss,
we circle like the beasts accused of soullessness
and I'm afraid. Cryptic and ravenous, our gift,
our gift, we are the secretaries
of the heart, the one remaining star.