Observatory

They climb a playing card deck of steps
to a room full of optical equipment
and mirrors she angles carefully before —
"Don't breathe!' she orders — taking his photograph.
He stares at a two-dimensional man
in serial shards. His eyes walk round himself.
"I do holograms as well,' she adds,
"but they need time.' Quickly, she records
fingerprints, charts green-flecked irises.
Now she knows everything about him
but who he is… "I felt it was only fair,'
she says,' to show you all this, let you see
how impossible your task is.
If you accept my challenge, go now and hide —
believe me, I'll find you.' Her smile is,
for the first time, rueful: there's no denying
he's attractive — for a loser. He requests
a day to think, two extra chances…
("Another self-defeating optimist,'
she thinks, "with lots of space in the top storey.')
Before he leaves, they tour her twelve windows:
the first, preternaturally clear,
with each successive one more probing.
The last shows the furthest reaches of space,
the depths of earth and ocean: stellar dust
whirling through comet tails; plumbing problems
in kinked root hairs; amoebas' lunches…
He breathes slowly, tries to keep his nerve.