A term for when a telescope is first used
You peer at your brother from the wrong end,
a kind of consciousness that makes him appear
less of a sibling, the friend he wants to be.
Dark surrounds that light, a swallowing.
You have to look into that light, hardly worth
the effort, it fuzzies. You swing the telescope
and there he is again, crying for milk. Pick up,
pick up. He’s a room away, then the focus
is smeared, a tragedy-in-the-making, adult want
turned to scorn, something left off,
the repair’s ragged dark and not forgotten.
Here’s a cap for the instrument, here’s
the math that goes with the lens when it’s ground
to determines the size of that cap. Capsizing is rare
in the birth order of one to the other,
but the brain has its wonts. You are alone
in the universe, except for all those other stars.