Even in sleep my eyes are on the elements.
My eyes are pencils being perpetually resharpened
puzzling out the sky’s connecting dots
one almost expects to be accompanied by numbers,
jig-saw animal shaped constellations,
bear, bent dipper, wed fish in repose,
crowding out the angels who I suppose
must be stacked up tier on tier
as in the horseshoe of the opera house.
Each night the sky splits open like a melon
its starry filaments
the astronomer examines with great intensity.
Caught in his expensive glass eye
more microscope than telescope,
it is his own eye he sees, reflected
and possessed, a moon-disc in a lake,
safe, even to himself, untouchable;
and so his notion of himself must be corrected:
“Actually, the universe is introspective”.
An Astronomer’s Journal
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