The Deep Blue Throne of Arp’s Star

The spoor of a star in snow
Last year is now the dry spoor

Of a bit of rock from space
On a bit of rock from space.

It seems to you as if all
You do is to move your hands

And signs cleave bits of the air.
Where were we? The trees of shells,

Shirt fronts, forks, and laws of chance
All dance, but it’s the late prose

Poem, quite short, that we see here
In this dust where we wrote snow

Like a word, like one of us,
In ink, spoor stone’s throw, last year.