All the stars go down and I
lie on my back in the yard watching
the light dimming, hearing the break
of branches, of leaves sweeping as eyes
search the black, insects calling,
listening to the swirling lake
where frogs go operatic-like
and my body croons along, catching
itself. Tell me what I can take
away from this forgetting, why
I overlook my body, latching
onto the blues the nighttime makes,
how I avoid the light, my past,
and disappear into the grass.