Perma Frost Poem by Bernard Henrie

I think of a washed-up
business district in 1929.

A dusky white powder smears
the moon's face. A thin column
of Milky Way light the color
a woman might use on fingernails;

homely Pluto black as the Azores.
My hair dyed heavy black, a ponytail
like Sirius the unemployed dog star.

Mirzam,
Cassiopeia
and Pollux shut-down.

I see a closing restaurant, the owner
locks-up turning off an overhead fan.

When the trams stop,
we hear the stars burn to death
as they fall.

Not even mathematics can memorize
the entire archipelago I want to express.