I want to rest the way I did
before I knew the names of stars,
back when they were countless,
unfamiliar and forever.

The buried will find a place to glow again.
Your face sprouts up like a moon-
flower,
like every constellation we pointed to,
not like Merope,

who dimmed under
the dark tomb of sleep.

There will come a day when I can
scramble the stars again, or better,
the letters of your name.