Awake at 3 a.m., we paddle the canoe

toward the float—your idea.

The air, cooler over the water, 

is heavy, saturated with stillness. The lake 

ripples against the canoe’s freeboard, 

swirls as the oars dip tiny whirlpools

of star residue. We climb on the float,

look ashore. Most homes gave

over to the night long ago,

but a few show soft window squares

of orange and yellow contentment.

We lie and look up, wood cold 

against our shirt backs, breaths

warm against the dome of dying summer.

We’re the only ones tending them, 

you say of the stars,

sliding the gooseflesh of your arm 

against mine, waiting.

We are a floating island. The water

our conspirator, inhales the world’s banal

cruelties, holds its breath, reflects 

the Milky Way’s powdered dreams.

When a shooting star finally falls

as fireball—a storybook streak of red

reluctant to burn out—you say, There!

so quietly I realize it’d be wrong to reply.