what was it about that campfire we all struggled to build,
that warm richness
lighting our heads like sweet cigars—bowed almost in reverence
for the stinging smoke fetching tears from our eyes?
sparks fly between us, and in our faces.
i think the birds are fake, you once said.
we were skating down the single lane highway, and i don’t know how i
heard you over the rushing wind in my ears.
you were watching the
unmoving [fake] birds perched on the telephone wires;
the road traveled straight for miles, so i stood still on my board and watched the wires until they
blurred into a barcode gradient
swimming across my vision.
same, i said,
and i saw you nod sagely in the corner of my eye.
what is it about those flying sparks?
i hope you can see your unmoving [fake] birds
freewheeling in the strawberry smolder.
Finished Jan 1 2020, 6:15 pm(9:15 pm EST)
lowercase is intentional :)