We pluck stars from the sky. Arrange them
in a very tall vase, the base of which we fill
with our grin. We call this vase home. We
add water. A few cherries, in case we need
to grow a grove. Soil, yes, buckets of soil
because stars have deep roots to which
we must attend. Let’s add, too, some crown molding,
some French doors. A few liters of sky we paint
on the sides of the vase. These sides are glass
so something blue will do. The paint can tips
& we laugh, soil shooting from our noses,
paint dripping from our toes—how long it took us
to realize we’d been in love. To celebrate, let’s take
a boat out to sea and, because this boat is a fishing boat
and we’ve already caught, because our desire
is shaped like home, let’s go back. Let’s water
the rose with the tin can, that red rose with that
silver can, and all night stay up to watch it bloom.
When it’s done, we’ll know. We’ll carve out
a small hole in a petal and crawl inside, giddy,
gasping from the weight of our joy.