Rebecca Elson Poems

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We astronomers are nomads,
Merchants, circus people,
All the earth our tent.
We are industrious.
We breed enthusiasms,
Honour our responsibility to awe.


But the universe has moved a long way off.
Sometimes, I confess,
Starlight seems too sharp,


And like the moon
I bend my face to the ground,
To the small patch where each foot falls,


Before it falls,
And I forget to ask questions,
And only count things.

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