That house, worn down by sun and salt rain, was doomed. In a few years,
it would be a hollow replacement, gone from our stale grown-up brains.
But tonight candles would burn bright in our heads and
light would paint across the beautiful walls peeling with old memories:
hiding places for little children in big bodies.
There was no reason to be loud, no more void to fill,
we just stood and looked at our reflections in the window:
They were far, far brighter than we were.
Kid sitting at the edge of a dock.
Legs swinging in free fall.
Wood scrapes into his hands.
He thinks that the stars can talk to him.
Midwestern night.
There’s something out in the fields,
Something banging on the roof.
Fresh vomit in the toilet.
The sink is running, so you can’t
Hear your own heavy breathing.
There was a collapsed star.
There was light at the very end of a cave.
There was lightning that struck a tree.
There was a baby born
With a slightly bigger skull, one day.
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