and I don’t know what it means, this thinking
about thinking.
I’ve thought enough about evening,
of stars and moons so full, I want to give them meaning.
How it will take more than I can ever write
to make the pins of light into
ten freckled girls jumping rope.
I don't know what this means, this thinking
about thinking,
this hope, this fading of the light.
I cannot stall the sun's first beams like fingers
on your face.
I cannot make the stars connect into our sign.
And the moon. I cannot make her
into you.
