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Mount Wilson Observatory.
The dome glows in the pines like a fallen moon
announcing the last phase—
guess it’s some kind of release,
being away, being here with the
middle of the night’s nebulous spirit,
this narrow ridge of tranquility
so far from home, troubles seem smaller,
as if distance were the answer.
Outside, a white gravel crescent leads
to the hundred inch and the remains of
a party that ended in a wet ring of cocktails.
Through the eyepiece at midnight
daily orbits dwarfed
by Jupiter’s vast descent,
the celestial loom’s weave of fire and air
that has nothing to do with
what I hold onto—
my own body is mostly space,
an illusion conjured by atoms,
a stunning effect, like this mobile
of sandalwood cranes turning
in their token piece of sky,
the guest room where I can’t sleep
spare and open: futon, table and chair,
bare walls, a floor so polished it reflects.
I wish my life were as simple as this room,
the mind made large and comfortable
by a few, wise choices.
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