Galileo in Florence

by B. T. Shaw

With age came diminishing ability to focus
on objects at hand. Pen nib. Collar stud.
Ruddy nest of squab bones on a dinner plate.

Behind him, then, the distance failed.
Northern hills and eastern olive groves
lost ground. Finally, the vineyards vanished
in soft wash of green chintz and gold silk.

He charted each loss in its sidereal arc.
Until the tipped stars, too, emptied the glass
opening the curtain on everyday dark.

 

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B. T. Shaw lives in Portland, Oregon, where she edits the poetry column for the Sunday Oregonian. Her work has appeared in print and online journals, including Orion, Tin House, and Born.