Lungs, you say, are the unimagined house
inside the body, the breathing universe
with the breadth of snow and silence
and the Trachea is a lonely brown thrasher
singing the longest love song in history.
We lie in bed, gaze at the phosphorescent
stars stuck to the ceiling and wall,
constellations collide with the dresser,
the cat appears to wear the rings of Saturn.
This duplicate sky is alive and burning
more bright than nature,
more true to imagination.
The heart, I say, is a false sunflower
sprouting from your cupped human hand.