The boy on the moon
his shape slumped on the crescent.
His feet dangle from the ledge,
as he casts the rod. It hits
the water with a plop.
I want to ask him what he catches
before the film starts.
I’m wondering if that blue pool
contains the dreams
of so many children, swimming
around like fish.
I’d like to go back
to the boy on the moon
one day, and ask him if he caught
any of my dreams, even if
they slipped out of his hand,
or died when he pulled them on the hook.
Tonight it will rain stars. Tonight you will run
with me, hand in hand as my black dress swings
against my legs. The windows
will reflect against the dark like hearths.
You will nestle under our umbrella,
see the stars sprinkle
the street like dust and watch them bouncing
around the streetlamps like moths.
You will try, and fail, to catch them in your hand.