Upstairs in the house of language,
He plays with the serpents
as He writes them, as He daydreams
of rain, and foreshadows it.
When He blanks on metaphors,
He’ll watch the moon change for a while,
as we write volumes
interpreting the sea.
He pressed stars between pages
like flowers, for when He couldn’t stand
to be close by. Their lightyears give shadow
to his stories—turn them into us.
