if you look
at the
scatter
of stars
in the sky
enough; new
constellations
begin to,
slowly,
materialize.
orion's belt
is suddenly
a man in a
postal hat
buying
croissants
at a bakery;
aquila is
string-lights
on a balcony.
the morning
sun pours in
as you sit,
quietly, at
the table —
warm
matzah,
too fragile
for butter;
words in
your brain
— a tiny
car on the
windiest day.
if you look
at decades-
old photographs
enough; they
start to
morph into
monsters
bigger than
the whole
of you. if
you look at
the monsters
enough; you
are left
with love.
the driveway
is covered
in snow; the
man is wearing
flip-flops at
the park;
the lilacs
are beginning
to grow; the
sunlight in
the afternoon
is turning
the grass
ochre-brown.
you're at
the table;
flatbread
and
depression.
i take you,
by the hand,
to the
smallest
corner of
this house.
stop. look.
if you lay
here,
with me,
and look
at the ceiling
enough; the
paint starts
to become a
night sky,
and there are
constellations.