Little girls dance barefoot
under an audience of stars,
curtseying beneath the broken
back of the moon.
Their small feet skipping
down the straight and narrow
crest of moonlight,
the night bleeding out upon
the backs of clouds.
The aging moon often wanders
in his forgetfulness, but
by morning, he will have
rebuilt the world backwards:
treetops to stems,
and conjured sleeping
girls into wakefulness.
