A windfall of raucous jeers
swirls down on my bent head.
Earth burns, slant shadows

Now that the last shreds of tobacco
die at your gesture in the crystal bowl,
to the ceiling slowly

on which the lunar spring descends‚
blanching every shard with halo splendor,
chips of broken cones, sheen

Concerning the universe, the city of God,
we know very little.

People talk and talk more
about black holes.