I pause on the path, drop my sticks,and bend to read them like runes.Tell stars, They said. So do daily—I chart their breathless turning asI gather berries in bush—Each twig's finger marks celestial points—North is Reckoner's Compass. South,Theory's Backbone. West, God's Thumbs,and East, Mount Moriah—Yet, see more:Beyond—within—the navigable wildernessabove, 18 quasars guard edge of theuniverse...