Imagine her surprise to find sun slices placed by the sky
on the lawn come fresh air when the day before a deep
brown city followed room to room like a pestering
face, call,
star.
Pigeons coddled gray shade beneath the bridges at noon.
She held limes deep in a bag, small planets in a black galaxy,
and made heel echoes on the street as the rain began to boil
and pop in the puddles
where stars cross
at night behind
the street
lamps.
Moons and suns hung at the windows. Tables and chairs leaned
into silver pools under the ceiling floods as she locked the door,
stepped down a quiet hall, aimed a car at the river and the hills,
and flung the door key
and the limes one by one
out the window.
AND
How galaxies
must look to a grape-eyed frog
in the dream of a child
in the eyes of a woman
under the morning birch trees
with a mind full of a man
seated on the red mesa
while the black river bends below
touched silver by the moon
in the mind of a child
imagining asteroids as frogs’ eyes
as he runs by the pond toward home
