It is a good day when I find you, a petal of peony caught up in the wind or puzzling out the sky’s bent dipper over pancakes before school. Each night the moon-dish splits open like a honeydew its starry lake on a floating branch. Light falls from this dark as shining pennies we flung in the Trevi Fountain for luck we didn’t once need. We’re out in the garden as cells, Mad Libs, Motown, Hercules, principally as ourselves. There is never an outbound flight from the status quo/