Years passed and the faces grew familiar,
and after many years I recognized myself–
not as I am now but as a child
(nobody in the town ever grew older)–
playing the children's games, blindfolded,
staggering, or locked in a circle of hands
as the bigger children danced around
the others. But each time I stepped forward
to see better, the telescope I was holding
made the town seem smaller, till finally
no matter which lenses I used or
in what order, I knew there was a limit
on my sight, that years of vigilance were
unaccounted for. What could I hope for?
The child in the long skirts would
stay there past my life, accomplice to
cruelty and tenderness, the backward motion
of the children's dance reversing time's
advance. I left in the middle of the night,
not knowing where I would go,
the children's shouts following
me across the fields, fainter now,
but clear, untouchable stars burning
five-pointed holes in the dark, grieving,
leaving behind a useless telescope.
