When the sky is all molten silver of stars,
The astrologer scoops it in telescopefuls
And measures the celestial distance clear
by nascent rays hitting the thermopile,
And his face, too, catches a beam from there
And looks damn hopeful.
If you are human—
And I’m certain you duly are—
It’s impossible to think of all telescoped stars
On time’s huddled, crumpled spur,
For your heart is stretched taut
On the points of a single star.
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