from Vol. 14, No. 2 (Spring 1991)

Letters From The North Star

Kevin Young



. . . the lights here ask
nothing, the white falling
around my letters silent,
unstoppable. I am writing you
from the empty stomach of sleep

where nothing but the cold
wanders where you're headed;
nobody here peels heads sour
and cheap as lemon, and only
the car sings AM the whole

night through. In the city,
I have seen children half-
bitten by wind. Even trains
arrive without a soul
to greet them; things do

not need me here, this world
dances on its own. Only bridges
beg for me to make them
famous, to learn what I had
ahnost forgotten of flying,

of soaring free, south,
down. So long. Xs, Os.


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