I watched priests fumble with a telescope
In my lucid semi-consciousness and laughed.
If stars could look back from
Heavens and hear those calling for heaven
As flames from Andromeda
Illuminate like Bruno’s embers.
A cosmos shattering mirrors
For the superstitious who hear the warning to
A whimper from my baby next door, I keep the dream
In a fuzz like the microwave background
of a static station.
What is he asking for?
A chance for a look too?
Perhaps to find red orange blazing in warmer
climates than our tiny candle can provide.
The clerics focus on each other
Of only a few thousand years ago,
As the swirling waves
Of Canapus, Capella,Rigel and Rigulus
Reach their lens millions of years too late
To chronicle in books of blessing or banishment.
He is crying now in low tones of early morning grumbles
Which it must now be.
I open the door and see what I know I cannot.
The blues of his eyes hitting my own
Nanoseconds apart, but far too dark to be blue.
The deception fades with the wasting away of REM
And the return to the dark greys of uncertainty,
Where beauty and form come slowly and righteously
Even on this dot
on a dot
on a dot in Brooklyn.