In cold weather
there is less twinkle in the stars
and if cloudless
the night will be colder
and offer even more stars
to burn almost as steadily
as the planets, and if
you stand outside
and look up, you 
will be more aware than usual
of each breath.

Each light will feel
sharp, and each will clean you 
from the nose all the way 
down into the lungs. If starlight
was oxygen you might be able
to feel how much was contained
in a given breath,
feel it long enough
to recognize what was being 
scoured out of you
as you inhaled and exhaled.

In their places in space,
in their true fiery forms
far above the posturing
and wonder of humans,
the stars burn far above
our symbolism
and meaning,

but until then, you and I
and everyone else
will stand out here
with our heads back
watching them burn,
feeling it as pure cold
with every breath 

while hoping
that this one time
something we can feel
being pulled out from us
will be replaced
by something better.

There’s a table
at which no one has ever sat,
an ingenious table of sliding parts
built of zebrawood.  Turn its top
and the top expands
to take in leaves and turn
from table for six
to table for twelve.

The table sits in a museum
longing for a feast.  It longs
for a warm room
and earthenware plates
heaped with good hearty food,
rough woven napkins
and thick silverware and wine,
so much wine.

It longs to be spread open
in a hurry as the hosts call out
to the hungry outside,
“Come in, of course there’s
plenty for all, and
of course we’ll make room for you.”

What such a table wants from us 
is function.  It wants to hold
and groan under the weight
of that blessed holding.  It cannot bear
to be admired as idea, as concept —

such a table needs to be full.