by Eleanor Lerman

    I am out before dawn， marching a small dog through a meager¹ park

    Boulevards angle away， newspapers fly around like blind white birds

    Two days in a row I have not seen the meteors

    though the radio news says they are overhead

    Leonid's brimstones are barred by clouds； I cannot read

    the signs in heaven， I cannot see night rendered into fire

    And yet I do believe a net of glitter is above me

    You would not think I still knew these things：

    I get on the train， I buy the food， I sweep， discuss，

    consider gloves or boots， and in the summer，

    open windows， find beads² to string with pearls

    You would not think that I had survived

    anything but the life you see me living now

    In the darkness， the dog stops and sniffs³ the air

    She has been alone， she has known danger，

    and so now she watches for it always

    and I agree， with the conviction of my mistakes.

    But in the second part of my life， slowly， slowly，

    I begin to counsel bravery. Slowly， slowly，

    I begin to feel the planets turning， and I am turning

    toward the crackling shower of their sparks

    These are the mysteries I could not approach when I was younger：

    the boulevards， the meteors， the deep desires that split the sky

    Walking down the paths of the cold park

    I remember myself， the one who can wait out anything

    So I caution the dog to go silently， to bear with me

    the burden of knowing what spins on and on above our heads

    For this is our reward：Come Armageddon， come fire or flood，

    come love， not love， millennia of portents——

    there is a future in which the dog and I are laughing

    Born into it， the mystery， I know we will be saved

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