Thirteen lines, thirteen words, one sentence: the night is fractured, and the stars, blue and far away, shiver. Nothing else happens. There is no speaker saying "I", no story and no explanation of what broke the night. The poem gives a single image and leaves the reader alone with it, which is where its power comes from.
Start with the verb "fractured." It belongs to bones, glass and ice, things that were solid and are now cracked. Applied to the night, it turns the sky from a smooth dark blanket into a pane with fault lines running through it. The stars become the light leaking through the cracks. Then the poem adds "shiver," and the two words start to echo each other. "Shiver" also has an older meaning in English: a splinter or small shard, as in something smashed "to shivers." So the stars shiver in two senses at once. They tremble with cold, and they are the splinters of the broken night. It's a quiet pun, and the poem never points to it.
The grammar is just as careful. The sentence says "they shiver" before it tells us who "they" are. For a few lines the pronoun hangs in the air, and only after "blue," does the poem add its afterthought: "those stars." It sounds like someone speaking softly and correcting themselves, as if the speaker looked up, saw something trembling, and only then worked out what it was. The word "those" matters too. It points at the stars from a distance, which prepares for the poem's last move.
Blue does two jobs. It is the colour of cold, which suits shivering, and it is the colour of sadness, so the stars seem faintly lonely. There is also a small irony, if you know your astronomy: the hottest stars burn blue-white. The poem gives them the look of heat and then makes them cold, and the contrast suggests that the feeling belongs to whoever is watching rather than to the stars. The speaker never appears, yet the stars' shivering seems to carry a human mood.
The shape on the page does as much work as the words. Every word gets its own line, so the poem drops down the page in a thin column, like a crack running through a sheet of glass. The reader can't skim. Each small word, "the," "is," "and," gets the same weight as "fractured," so the poem moves at a slow, hesitant pace, like stars appearing one at a time as your eyes adjust to the dark. There is no rhyme and no regular metre. The rhythm comes entirely from the line breaks, which turn almost every word into a beat followed by a pause. The comma after "shiver" and the one after "blue" add two extra beats of silence.
Two lines are indented slightly: "they" and "shiver." This is the poem's one visual tremor, a small sideways movement in an otherwise straight column. Even the layout seems to shake at the exact moment the word is spoken. The ending then drains away with "in / the / distance," three lines made of nothing but small connecting words. They shrink in size and importance, so the stars recede as we read, and the poem ends by looking away from itself, out toward something it can't reach.
The sounds support this. Hard, clipped consonants run through "night," "fractured" and "distance," a brittle, cracking texture. Against them, "shiver," "those" and "stars" bring hissing, whispery sounds, like breath in cold air.
As for who wrote it, the name supplied is a string of consonants, and the title, "Untitled 033," suggests one entry in a numbered series. That is all the text itself lets us say, so it makes more sense to judge the poem on what is on the page. It is significant because it shows how much a poem can do with almost nothing. Its meaning depends on where the words sit, how long we wait between them, and what a single verb like "fractured" can suggest. It also leaves its central question open. Whatever broke the night, the poem only tells us that the stars are still trembling from it.