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.