Poem: Field of View

A man sits at a desk
with a telescope.

He has positioned it carefully.
The angle is correct.
The candle has been trimmed.

He is searching the sky
for something of importance.

The sky, meanwhile,
contains everything.

He believes in instruments.
He believes in narrowing the field.
He believes that what matters
will appear in the center.

The lens obliges.
It offers a disciplined circle.
Stars enter one at a time,
as if taking a number.

Then a streak of light
crosses the room.

Not through the telescope.
Beside it.

The man does not see it.
He is concentrating.

The sky has chosen
a different method of entry.

He adjusts the focus.
He notes the stability of the heavens.
He appreciates their order.

Something bright fades near the wall.

He records nothing.

In this way
the universe remains vast,
and the man remains certain.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026