He lays down
in the soft and wet
night grass. A cricket chirps, something else is a low trill.
Internally, he is resigned
from his position
of whether he will do it, or not,
or spontaneously change his mind
about doing it
because of what she said
that was irritating, annoying, and prickly.
He floats
in the soft grass
on his back
like a real swimmer. The
stars hang over him
very far away
and very closely. It could be
as if his shirt fell open, and the whole night paused, the cricket silenced
and the annoyances and irritations
and the things she said
or meant
all simply went away
and the stars increased their susceptibility
to gravity
to his own pull
even though he is lightly floating in the grass. It could be
as if his skin
painlessly dissolved
and his ribs
evaporated away
and his chest
was now an opening, and open and empty cavity
to which the stars responded
by beginning to slide
and then fall
and then rain into his chest
filling him
with light
without weight
without compromising
his position
in the grass and dew
and his ability
to lay down
and be somewhere between
a crust of earth
and a dark, scatter-shot, heavenly
night sky.
