The astronomer has a lens full of stars. He wonders
if he should switch to wide angle to give them more room.
They are like a swarm of bees.
He wonders if he can change shapes permanently
by adjusting the focus.
He wonders if the stars know how close
he has brought them; if they have any sense
of distance. Perhaps they think the lens is their
He wonders what he can do with them. They lack
the magic of free stars. Has he destroyed their purpose?
He wonders if they could be used to pollinate flowers,
a sort of stingless bee…
He wonders if he should stir them to butter with a big spoon.
He wonders if they are looking at him, too.
He would like to line them up single file
but drifts off into space, star gazing.