by Jodie Marion
A convention of ordinary astrophysicists attends
to a dying star. They clear their throats, proffer
weak calculations, then admit none knows what to say.
They are just like you and me, those astrophysicists.
In silence, they scan their menus, follow protocol.
The heartsick astrophysicists do not break
with tradition when they order heaps of scrambled eggs
and try all morning to reconvene the yolks.