Above my small bed higher than I can quite
reach standing on a wobbling chair
tiptoes an unsteady dance of
stretching arms and air currents,
fingers grasping.
Haphazardly tacked across my ceiling
lies a nest of tiny green-glowing stars
their light fit to illuminate only
themselves and any piece of
an idea projected
through them.
I remember once
using the curled ropes of your hair
to connected them together. You asked why
and I told you the story of the star scorpion
whose barbed tail is made of the
hottest bits of sun fire and whose
eyes heavy silver neutron stars.
And once the last big light flickers and
coughs dust across the night sky
he will wave pincers, claws a net of gravity
catching the last meaty bits
of the universe, comets
crushed and then dissolved by
ancient poison.
But you did not quite follow as my hands
traced a hundred shapes in the air,
and that might have been best, since the
false light had faded from the roof and from your
eyes. I sighed and let the air escape skyward,
carrying bits of my dreams along
toward his exact jaws so that
one day my breath, too, would be
compacted and devoured.
And eventually, from the quivering soup
of the bits uneaten, a piece might start
to spin and spin in the receding silence.