Two-Thirds of a Love Song

The hood is still dented in mannequin shapes
where we tried to find the Big Dipper.
Speckles of stars watched as we pointed
to something too far from real to really count.
But we tried.
And when the weak star fell,
I believed you,
though my betraying blink missed the
dramatic feat, the starry-eyed dream.
Sometimes, even now,
I do think I see the Big Dipper,
organizing the jumbled mass,
scooping and capturing far-off suns.