Stars climb girders of light.
They arrange themselves
in the usual place,
they quit before dawn,
and nothing’s been done.

Then men come out.
Their helmets fill the sky;
their cities rise and fall
and men descend,
proud carpenters of dew.

Man brief as the storm,
more than five feet of lightning,
twisted and beautiful.
Man made like his roads,
with somewhere to go.

1968


 = Daniel Myers