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.