Poem Twenty Three: Notes on Milkstars

Milk of stars. The bride 

throws a bouquet of flowers 

into the crowd.

 

I catch them.  

He catches them. 

We catch them in the dream.

 

Larkspurs and daffodils 

make marks on our arms 

we will talk about come morning.

 

Have we been looking for a long time 

into a telescope at the stars?

At the fields filled with ripe corn,

the sound the crickets make 

on a late night in May, when we wonder

what is it we have done with our lives?

 

Who have we become?

 

The wedding party gets into a boat 

to careen across the still water of the lake.

 

We shall shake the sleep from our arms.

We shall become the delicate creatures

children’s books are made of.