suburban bonfire blues

Milk-sweet regrets melting from your lips and
pooling quiet on the hardwood floor
form a window or a mirror, dark and honest,
a blemish we choose not to notice.
Your mind moves slow and burning
like a summer afternoon
with the easy harmony of windchimes
and the disquiet of a solitary cloud
on the horizon. You are written plainly
on a piece of paper and posted
for all to see. We look away.
We are on an island or in a tower
and far away from everything.
Your words are a flock of finches
and we watch cracks in the sidewalk.

Fingers climb the walls searching for corners
and brushing lightly over the titles of books.
Trees shoot up, growing roots around
your jaw or throat, your eyes
are a pond. We skip rocks.

When all of us gather, there is
talking and laughing and nobody
wants to leave. Sometime after dark,
you sit down and begin to play music.
It's all I can hear.
A tiny wooden boat with a red sail
floating over still grey waters.