Above the steps you swept the stone,
you passed the broom on every spot.
The flowers of night released their stars.

You swept and swept.

The stars stood grimly quiet, like vengeful sons.
The moon sat partly veiled, the stars around her
bristled and glistened in ranks.

We sank at first under their starry will,
we almost succumbed.

You took off my glasses and spat on your hanky,
wiping the dust from each lens.

Beneath the stars, the most delicate touch.
Pieces of down from the sweepings were caught on your dress.
We gazed up at the stars,
we tried to puzzle out their coded wish.

That night was the first I felt him kick against my palm.
I tried to listen to his heartbeat through a rolled-up piece of card
but I could never make it work.

You rested a while on the steps.
Dusty ropes of spider silk,
feathers and threads and stems
clung to your dress.

Two fingers breadth below the umbilicus
we both felt his feathery grip.
The stars shrank back from his determined glare.
He will fight his way out.

The stars spat down upon the earth
with narrow-minded eyes.
They gathered in confiding groups
and whispered plans.

We choose to stare them out, defy their rule.

Those starry motes looked ready to be swept.
You raised your broom.