and lawns thick and green with rain
like money. I want to fall down,
collapse on the grass and wish
you here, your body blooming
with new tides (and am I
a tide for you? Faith: the moon knows
what it's doing). Preposterous--
does anyone really deserve
this much God? He's in the dandelion
and in your hair, and in my fingertips,
weaving new, invisible moons there.
Fall down watching the sky fall down
while the sky watches us fallen on the grass
below, a little sad to lose all those new
moons to you. But that's the sky's
job--What can I do?