Here, too, a tablespoon of light
spills from each temporary star—
to filigree the green blade
of a leaf’s edge in the dark
tree we have climbed as if
to merge our bodies
with the names carved
in the bark: Archie, Janey,
Daphne, Clark, the hearts
you closed around a sapling
have since slackened, gray
and oblong, like elastic
in an old man’s sock—
weightless, almost, as we are,
squirreling higher up
to where the branches fork
the air untouched
by the unbearably pure
glare of a police squad car,
our sweatpants pockets full
of pills and stolen pearls.