The sky’s like beach glass, 
wave-worn lapis lazuli,
somebody’s old favorite. 

In its vast back window 
hangs a misshapen moon 
lost-boy style.

One crow flies across, 
corner to corner,                
hurrying offstage.  

I don’t know what will become of us—
who does?—but how could it go wrong 
when our hearts beat one, and 

one     one     one,     and     one     and     one.