Stars above, compactly folded, I label each one and trust
They will stay in assigned containers, protected from the rust.
(Plastic bins, plastic bins
And all the shiny things within).
Baby birthed, I have a story, a book to write of you—
We will gush and brag up your name if you accept “the truth.”
(What could have been? What could have been?
And all the children say, “Amen”).
Clip feathered wings, chain unknown things, shadows stored and safe
Our closets full, we sweetly stroll, smiles set firmly in place
(Sleeping sound, sleeping sound
And spinning worlds remain unfound).