Who says stars are not wanted now
on the ceiling as vast as galaxies,
so white and empty like memory?
When do you pack up the moon
by the open window of my room
dark as death, dim as nightmare?
What makes you dismantle the sun
when walls are as cold as winter,
blind to my tears, deaf to my cries?
How can you pour away the ocean
that will not dry like my tired eyes
still at black, moist at deep blue?
Where will you sweep up the wood,
keeping thorns and long-dead lilies
lost among paths and rained crickets?
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