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.