After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser

    and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped

    gable-wall， dimming the night vault of her ceiling

    like a haze or the interfering glow

    of a great city， small hands anticipating

    eons as they raided the playful patterns

    her father had mapped for her - black holes now

    where the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat

    had been， the feet of the Turtle， wakeful

    eyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper

    stars on herself. One on each foot， the backs

    of her hands， navel， tip of nose and so on，

    then turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close

    like a child chilled after a winter bath

    pressed up to an air duct or a radiator

    until those paper stars absorbed more light

    than they could hold. Then turned off the lamp，

    walked out into the dark hallway and called.

    Her father came up. He heard her breathing

    as he clomped upstairs preoccupied， wrenched

    out of a rented film just now taking grip

    on him and the child's mother， his day-end

    bottle of beer set carefully on the stairs，

    marking the trail back down into that evening

    adult world - he could hear her breathing （or

    really， more an anxious， breathy giggle） but

    couldn't see her， then in the hallway stopped，

    mind spinning to sort the apparition

    of fireflies hovering ahead， till he sensed

    his daughter and heard in her breathing

    the pent， grave concentration of her pose，

    mapped onto the star chart of the darkness，

    arms stretched high， head back， one foot slightly raised -

    the Dancer， he supposed， and all his love

    spun to centre with crushing force， to find her

    momentarily fixed， as unchanging

    as he and her mother must seem to her，

    and the way the stars are； as if the stars are.

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