Nano-Knowledge

 There, a little right
of Ursus Major, is
the Milky Way:
a man can point it out,
the biggest billionfold of all
predicaments he's in:
his planet's street address.


What gives? What looks
a stripe a hundred million
miles away from here

is where we live.


*

Let's keep it clear.
 The Northern Lights
are not the North Star.
 Being but
a blur, they cannot reassure us.

They keep moving - I think far
too easily.
 September spills

some glimmers of
the boreals to come:
they're modest pools
of horizontal haze, where later

they'll appear as foldings in the vertical,
a work of curtains, throbbing dim
or bright.
 (One wonders at
one's eyes.
) The very sight
will angle off in glances or in shoots
of something brilliant, something

bigger than we know, its hints uncatchable
in shifts of mind .
.
.
 So there

it is again, the mind, with its
old bluster, its self-centered
question: what

is dimming, what is bright?
The spirit sinks and swells, which cannot tell
itself from any little luster.

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