and its craters, nor moon

and the mourning dove song

slipping through the currents

of longing and silence

between the huddled groves

of houses, green slide

and swing set with its accents

of green carrying to me

what is most green and

dark, the teeming tide

pool sloshing in the receiver

of the telephone when you

a twelve-year-old

lift it to ear and jaw

wet hair slivering along

your shoulderskin after

the shower which you left

to learn you’re being asked

to join Matt at the dance.

Which Matt is this

is the thing you meant to say

but never did so did not

discover whose hand

reached out to beckon

you toward their wonderment

and shame. What we don’t speak

fills the trees, unrolling languorously,

crepe paper party streamers,

pale unfurled scrolls of soft

toilet paper. There is nothing special

in how you dream, how you seek out

stars.

And yet.