At the base of a waterfall, a boy
offers to sell me his chameleon
and I ask if I can pay for it in stars.
Mist leaps off the rocks—the night is warm
and the spray emboldens me.
How about those two, the twins,
I say, pointing toward Castor + Pollux
clinking like silver coins in the southern sky.
Make it the Little Dipper, he insists,
so I reach to bend down the Little Dipper
and the three of us pretend to drink
the thin, piquant cosmos. When the ladle empties,
he tucks the constellation in his back pocket
like a slingshot and retreats down the hillside.
In the moon dark, my chameleon’s sharp toes
grip my skin as he climbs my limbs,
the astral sheen on his lips gleaming
like the astral sheen on mine.