Morning Pit Stop

Because the universe, it seems,
is getting bigger,
because the space is deepening
between each star,
we listen now for light,
for murmurs from some fading sun.

The night sky’s farther
than it was when we stood
hushed and hunched above a tripod
in the dark yard,
focusing the constellations
on their way away from us:

the gleam of galaxies an echo,
an ear for an eye,
the lens we squinted through
become a bowl of sound
tipped upward, open
as the black hole of a pupil.


In the Age of the Radio Telescope, by James Scrunton