Betelgeuse

On Betelgeuse

the gold leaves hang in golden aisles

for twice a hundred million miles,

and twice a hundred million years

they golden hang and nothing stirs,

on Betelgeuse.

Space is a wind that does

not blow on Betelgeuse,

and time - oh time - is a bird,

whose wings have never stirred

the golden avenues of leaves

on Betelgeuse.

On Betelgeuse

there is nothing that joys or grieves

the unstirred multitude of leaves,

nor ghost of evil or good haunts

the gold multitude

on Betelgeuse.

And birth they do not use

nor death on Betelgeuse,

and the God, of whom we are

infinite dust, is there

a single leaf of those

gold leaves on Betelgeuse.