Foundry

It takes the baby several seconds looking From your pointing to the stars To solder the word and a heaven-blue glint Firm, until tomorrow when he’ll have

Forgotten how four sounds melt And make an entire galaxy centered On his mother’s outstretched index finger; Still molten, sounds and things pour

Quickly into words like molds and break Cooling too fast, unsettled when open. But for now it’s almost enough to have A mother mining jewels from the sky, Crimping with sounds the stars to his hands— Yes, it’s almost enough to have.