He carries the horizon
on his shoulders
his knees are bent
days slip from his pocket
like bits of paper and lint
I won’t let go, he says, not yet
and tucks a cloud beneath the mountains
tips the sun like a hat
He takes my hand and traces the stars
leaves a thumbprint on the moon
gathers the ocean to my ear
I reach up on my toes
wrap my arms around his chest
all the way to China
Writing 