When it finally happened
all I could picture
was a pebble’s impact in a bowl of flour
and the circle of dust
rising.

I took us into the chill black,
five toy-like fingers wrapped
around my thumb, tight as bacon,
and you asked
‘Why don’t they make any sound?’

I steamed out some words
concerning large balls of gas,
but you preferred all the “c” ones
you’d caught in school:
cosmic, cluster, constellation,
even celestial with its cheaty “s”.

And like any other question
you asked
‘Which one is he now?’

Little man, so sure
that I could spy out
the pinprick of light
that used to sit in his eye.

He gave it to you.