I want to be the slight hill in my parent’s backyard whispering, “sit.”

Then: “Lay down.”

Tip your head back.

Sea clouds of other worlds drifting by.

Fall up into the dying stars.

Sink into the stratosphere

The moon’s rays cut the grass.

The big dipper as real as cheddar cheese

cut in squares above Ragu spaghetti sauce

paradise on a round cracker

microwaved, solid, dissolved, fueled.

The grass greener than false memory.

Hill of snow and sled.

Hill of cold wanting for hot chocolate.

Hill slides me away from inescapable tangible concrete

its circuitous paths heat by 3pm

too hot to touch in summer

the heat more real than other people:

distant unreachable.

My specific hunger is light years away.

Sometimes I think I can’t know it in one lifetime.

At least not the way I know the grass, this hill:

the way it slopes like a breast tired from nurturing

ready to lay down and wait for the miracle:

stars burn until they run out of fuel.

My hip’s red dwarf remains. Its signal wakes me

every night at 2:30 am.