I read about this man who could spot supernovas
Faster than any computer
He was a priest in Australia
A trestle table, black sheet, a salt shaker
He was sought out as an adviser by nasa
His day job was as a preacher
And at night he watched the death of giant stars
Picking them out like incorrect grammar
As if nothing could be easier
My black skirt in a cubicle
Scattered with flecks of white powder
Throwing lines away like they don’t matter
When there’s enough left over