We remember the darkness at our backs, the spine of stars.
How each memory was sifted, then offered back to us from the ash of our bodies. 
How the night plow spilled its cargo of ice over the curved fields.
Murmur of smoke at the edge of the woods.
A crucible of starlings, open sky.
Now two more suns and the moon smaller by half; at the end of the day, another day.
This is not the heaven we counted on, still so knotted to the blue world.
We remain winter shadows, heat rising from rooftops –
Blade and bee falling endlessly before the scythe of the sun.