He wants to number the stars
like he doesn’t know they are only fleeting nebulae of gases
and he wants to throw stones at them
like he doesn’t know the blackness contained in them
Silly man, I run my fingers through his hair
Don’t you want to grow up?
Or maybe become a spaceman?
I do not want the silence conjuring
and he strikes just at the rocket moment
The universe is a giant pomegranate
and the stars its nibble seeds-
juicy red, moist, delicious
Don’t you want to be a child?
Or maybe a fruit masher or juice maker?