Space Shuttle Columbia
     

       This is how, 
       round a cupola cocoon
       of the windowed winter room,
       each snow particle moves
       in tandem with the wind,
       trees succumb to invisible hands
       bending branch to branch,
       the ground is consumed
       by the press of white on black,
       and verticals of place
       recline beneath a white and swirling mask.

       This is how, perhaps,
       a drowning man cries
       beneath a beautiful sunset,
       an old dog nuzzles 
       the hand of the man 
       beside the strange, florescent metal table,
       a bird, on some distant continent,
       intones 
       evening stars again are here,
       but this time will not last.

       This is how
       a particle of snow
       alights, 
       lingers, 
       then melts into a tear
       on the other side 
       of cupola glass.
       

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