ONCE MORE THE STARS
The backyard buzzing.
Flies and mosquitoes
thick like jelly.
Brambled bushes
poking out of bluegreen grasses
the smell of blossoms
fresh in the air,
tranquility settling on us
like an old quilt wrought with memories
and smelling like
cloves and cinnamon.
And we sit
next to one another on
rickety pieces of wood
held together in segments
hammered and nailed
a small awning over the swing
perched in the grass
while the thinning crowd
thins.
She has a full glass of wine again
and smokes a cigarette
and the sun sets slowly
lighting us up like burning wreckage,
deciduous bodies
in forever locomotion.
We sit in resplendent silence,
nothing needing to be said
at that moment
and I watch a leaf bow and break
from its rooted spot
on the dark twisted branch
way-up-high,
a small gust of wind carrying it
cartwheeling frolicking
in smooth circles and
distinguished gymnastic movements
until it lands
on a gray-haired man’s shoulder.
He brushes it off casually
and continues his droning conversation
about
