Dean Sobers
There was, and is, darkness.
The stars are showboats.
But closer, dimmer lights
are distinct and kind of grandiose,
if you squint.
In these hours, tracing lines.
Furrowing the night
for something like the flickering
of a signal fire.
We’ll meet them there together.
We’ll meet them there.
With every odd dipole, occasional mover
among the noise and false colour,
a glimmer of frozen ice clouds,
dust and subdued embers.
Clyde Tombaugh toiled
with dots on photographic plates.
Now, a crowd of strangers
adding to a corpus,
hunting for signal fires,
aching the same aches.
So much to follow.
I think I see a shadow.
He thought she saw a sliver.
We’ll meet them there together.
We’ll see them there.
In these hours, I’m a part—not alone.
A part of something I like.
In these hours, tracing lines.
Furrowing the night.