I dance astride my rooftop, moonlight smiling. Dick Van Dyke, chimneysweep, dances in consciousness. Smooth, in time. I trip. Dick smiles. Try again. The world is at one’s feet. Beneath, I live in ruins, dust, runaway father, who criticized. He’d tell me to stop dancing like a sissy. Dad had no joy, dissected me. Weak, emotional. I keep tripping, trying to skip with grace. Rhythm. Clumsy. I start again, fall. Dick waits. Even a perfect chimneysweep must fall. I imagine us falling. But we fall upwards, see something vast. Something Dad can’t. I trip again. Look to the stars.