Indian's paintbrush
edge our roads, waving:
like children,
cheering a parade
swing silver fire-lanterns,
heads almost touching, you
whisper of cousins and far-away friends
just enough to
pretend you walk alone
make stars dance under your feet
as well as above this street-stage
to gasp at bats passing overhead,
to salute the groundhog, grass across his mouth
like a handlebar mustache,
to adorn your arms in ladybugs
to see if you are one of them
so hard
to make this night last
First appeared in Poppy Road Review.
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