Today the children dressed in orange in the park
line up like little yams against the green. I want them
like it’s Thanksgiving and we’ve gathered as family.
Only it is July and they are decoys sent by no one in particular.
They draw out the hunger eating through every day
fooling me there’s juice enough at home. At home
there’s the TV family. Day or night I am looking
down on us. Our ghostly selves running through sprinklers
or into pick-ups getting wet or a beer.
When the family goes away I go too.
I am at home but not really.
INTO THE THIN AIR
We branched flammable
through our last winter in the landscape.
Ice turned air ingenious, wild
like yelling without sound.
against smaller rhythms in flight.
more and more beyond the woodpile.
Our arms against gravity.
Our arms like wings
ready to break.