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:
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.