There, a little right br of Ursus Major, is br the Milky Way: br a man can point it out, br the biggest billionfold of all br predicaments he's in: br his planet's street address. br br What gives? What looks br a stripe a hundred million br miles away from here br br is where we live. br br * br br Let's keep it clear. The Northern Lights br are not the North Star. Being but br a blur, they cannot reassure us. br They keep moving - I think far br too easily. September spills br br some glimmers of br the boreals to come: br they're modest pools br of horizontal haze, where later br br they'll appear as foldings in the vertical, br a work of curtains, throbbing dim br or bright. (One wonders at br one's eyes.) The very sight br will angle off in glances or in shoots br of something brilliant, something br br bigger than we know, its hints uncatchable br in shifts of mind ... So there br br it is again, the mind, with its br old bluster, its self-centered br question: what br br is dimming, what is bright? br The spirit sinks and swells, which cannot tell br itself from any little luster.