You lay out your constellation charts on the balcony,
squat among the stenciled stars with your hands in fists,
because the charts say Cassiopeia should be there,
there between the glass buildings and the jagged moon,
above the children in red coats—
Cassiopeia should be there and it is not.
The Boston streets are full of blurry lights.
Below you, the New Years parade has grown tired: the mermaid on the float is starting to yawn,
the head of the Chinese dragon sat down on the sidewalk to rest and has yet to get up.
Ellen passed you twenty minutes ago playing the tambourine:
she waved but the air was heavy with confetti, the blue and orange squares
floating across her face so all you could see are the edges of her lips.
You once tried to take Ellen to a sandwich shop,
found yourself at a little store that only sold striped clothing.
The store had hundreds of tiny mirrors on the walls, so small you could only see
a fragment of yourself – an ear, an eyebrow, the many tilts of a smile.
You have nineteen maps of the sky and no map of the city.
Late that night, when the parade is finished,
you walk through streets filled with wind until you are lost.
The ice sculptures on the Commons are starting to melt—
you watch the woman with wings as her mouth melts away, then her nose, then her eyes.