Tunnel Vision

This telescope is bigger than a bus,
ten tons of metal and glass
focused precisely
on a spiral swirl of stars
a hundred times too faint to see
with the naked eye.

Tonight, like most nights,
I'm hunched over my keyboard
in a windowless room
whirring with computers.
I stare into a lime green screen
and watch the seconds tick,
the temperature inside a camera
cooled with liquid nitrogen
flutter up and down
in fractions of degrees.

I drift off, now and again,
and dream of swimming
among smooth-thighed
nymphs in pools of light
so evanescent, so delicious
I awaken lusting for the sky.
Not that infinitesimal spot
my telescope has stared at
for the past four hours,
but the SKY...

Outside the control room,
sweet smells of ozone
fade into darkness so deep 
I shiver in the thrill
of wondering how many,
what species of eyes
follow me and my cautious steps
away from that huge white shell
cracked open in a slit.

Then I notice something strange...
 
The whole sky bleeds red,
horizon to horizon,
without a cloud in sight.
Space itself seeps sanguine,
with no salty mist,
no tinge of iron upon my tongue.

Northward, heaven's blood
brightens into glowing curtains
of blue, green, yellow,
rippling in a silent solar wind
too faraway and fragile to feel.

A half hour from now,
the camera shutter will close.
An image will appear onscreen --
of a galaxy struggling 
from beneath a strange sea
of gray visual static.
My camera doesn't record
in color, mind you.
The sky bleeds black and white
upon my detector,
through this huge telescope
with tunnel vision.

Scott Speck
04/17/2003