Like early poets we are a bit hurt
By the monumental indifference
Of stars burning there to us here.
But the poets,now late, care little
About the stars around or us down.
They are burning in indifference.
The burning is going on nonstop
Leaving no residue or emptiness.
Nobody gives a damn to missing.
(On reading W.H.Auden’s poem The More Loving One)