The Observatory Without a Roof

The hill keeps its old ladder of pines, and at the top the dome is a cracked eggshell, wind slipping through the ribs like a careful animal, dust learning the names of the stars by touch.

A telescope, blind and noble, points at nothing, its glass a pool for moths and rain, where constellations drown and rise again, soft as breath on a cold, forgotten mirror.

I stand inside the hollow, hearing the city flicker, and above, the wide bruise of night unbandaged, as if the sky were leaning closer to be read, as if the world still wants a witness to its turning.