Hypatia

Searching the constellations for a sign,

I walk the jetty in the June-damp air. The lecture hall awaits;

the pressing hum of voices nearly stifles mine.

I look up always to the roof—ceiling or cirrus, star—my thoughts

are far-off. Formulas fog up my head. The books

I’ve never read pulse in their shelves, and tiny dots

freckle the blue-black spaces of the sky.

Casting aside their distant god, I’ve picked fixtures

I can touch: the chart and astrolabe, the cry

of gulls swooping for fish, scales, planets that glitter, words.

Searching the constellations for a sign,

I miss what’s written in the clouds, the falling shapes of birds.