We’re hard to find here.
Beyond the slow rotation
of wind chimes made of keys
and sticks
and multi-colored yarn,
the night erases all
that marks my place –
the tree out front,
the ditch, the neighbor’s drive,
the dullish numbers on the mailbox.
Everyone drives past.
Inside, against the blue-green wall,
the piano bows with books.
The yellow lamp illuminates his face.
From the tub, one child tells
the story of the berries
that will commandeer
the tiny boat she’ll make tomorrow.
No one cleaned the dinner plates
before they poured the wine.
I laugh.
The night stops outside my door.
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