A deer flew
over the car & the stars blinked
back their curse. In childhood
it was all possible

as the hours, and real.
My wild bed turned in the dark
until I could acknowledge
everything shining, safe

as I would ever be, asleep.
Twenty years later, I wish
at 11:11 on the same unlit
roads, home for the last time

& I remember it: the ritual
counting of stars, the reality
as strangling as myth, appeals to a world
of wonders impossible to control.