For so many conscious years, how convenient it was.
A relief to know that with one shut door
He could switch off every mannequin at a nonexistent party.
With what largesse he might bring them back
to chattering ingratitude. Earlier still,
to snuff out stars by the thousands with one raised hand
amused him, when some boring bedtime
required him to put away his parents.
But now she has sprung from the program of mild surprises,
demanding his constant attention;
he is dazed with maintaining her, but cannot bear
one handsome elbow's moment to be lost -
must circle her, reestablish the lion curve of her back
at the cost of a breast's eclipse to be speedily remedied,
must affirm her previously unimagined lips, call forth again
the mole behind her knee, his dutiful hands
keeping her three dimensions. He lets her laugh,
tolerates her most fantastic statements;
he knows she has somehow guessed she is not like the stars -
obligingly there whenever he opened his fingers.