each note a mirrored dust, a goalpost,
as daughters bounce off summer’s
shoulders, the idea of mars never
quite landing & a WWII navigator
remembers his windless map of stars.
Something hidden comes out
readied for a moment in the middle
of us: the family station wagon’s
wooded sides riding Swan hills,
sun’s noon gown kept at respectful
distance. The rest of the thought lost
in the grass, as an ice bucket shifts
its portable Saturday mid-rift of imaginary
silver birds & dark crickets.