Under bedsheets like rabbits do we crawl
with innocent eyes
far away from the words and shadows
of our illuminated world.

Under bedsheets like rabbits do we escape
from the blare and blur of suburban streets.
Streets with blinding light
in which the constellations suffocate
to shine.

The infinite possibilites
of the infinite universes
of the infinite this
and the infinite that.
So much to discover
and revel in,
the moon will never set
but will hover, golden
over the ripe horizon.

Under the rabbithole of bedsheets
do we find a world where the stars smile back.
Where a curleyheaded girl soaks her tired feet
in a slender river
for even just
a few moments of beauty
and passion
in our world composed so wholly
of streetlights and shadows.