The stars were mauve
and tar when I trimmed
them from the trees.
 
From dust, they parachuted
and disappeared into the ground.
 
It was a distant night,
that night, and you sublimed
 
Precociously
To the trill of clouds.
 
All foggy and complicit, we
return to the marshes,
 
Where between silk and libation,
the ink crackled like yam.