Cadillac Mountain

The night writes its name in stars.
I can't make out the script
but the words are there
shuttering in space.
I, myopic,
can only decipher
the trace of a letter:
Y.  Why, why?
The cursive doesn't say.
The pagination of the sky isn't aligned 
with the universe's handwriting.
Maybe I just can't read.
Perhaps I don't have the ability
to crack this lexicon.
I attempt nonetheless.
I scribble my name in snow,
hope the stars have a better grasp
of my shaky hand.

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