This is a poem about what the skeptic loses — imagination, along with a necessary connection to ancient practices. How are we to believe in Earth if we can’t believe in the Heavens? In the plodding directionlessness of the present, we are lost without the astral maps. I want to point out too CAConrad’s signature care for the visual impact of the poem. The disciplined shaping means that the poetic line here not only carries sound and sentiment but builds toward a striking sculptural presence. CAConrad’s is poetry that reaches for multidimensionality, and in this poem, the arc and increment of indentation is a convincer, moving with and toward the poem’s conclusion. (This poem first appeared in Copenhagen Magazine.)