"What is behind the stars?"

-he asked me because we are all seven years old
a some point in the day when we let
our mind rediscover that juju bees 
look like teeth and skylines and
stop lights.

God unfurled the sky like
the white mouth of a snare drum--
yanked wide like a dentist
the gaunt cheeks of canvas--

God pulled nothing into 

a sky. 
Rested it on an easel in the corner
of his studio. It waits
beside the clay molds of tap-dancers
--he punctured holes in the surface
with a fringed tooth pick when
he was done making club sandwiches 
for him and the sunset.
He always forgot that the sunset is vegan. 

Burnt the BLTs and lettuce lily pads in
morning rays he fried on the skillet
of the horizon.

Behind the stars God had curtains
that don't match the tile floor.
God dangles a prism from the windowsill
and when he sends out light each new morning
it spouts rainbows on the toaster.

Behind the stars God saunters
to a round table and eats toast
with strawberry jam. He thinks about
tap dancers-- flicks crumb-meteors
to watch them crackle in the atmosphere
and never find themselves
in the juju bee jaws of the roof tops.

Behind the stars I find you
and me and fringed caps of tooth-picks
that we can pretend are swords.
Behind the stars I'll meet you 
and we can tap dance to snare drums
and make stop lights into 
skyscrapers.