Fireworks From a Distance

We sit side by side, the pretty girl and I.

Swallowed in the ink of early morning,
we sway on a second story porch swing
that creaks beneath our weight. Below,

the last of laughter, bleary eyed, drifts up

like cold smoke to where the yellow leaves
no longer hang. Rocking and unrocking in

the blackness, we listen to ourselves speak silly words
of waking up one day to find our bodies old. 
Already we are ancient, the supple skin of inner wrists
blueprinted with a map for veiny parchment.
Age is like the fireworks we watched from miles away,
in the stillness of early evening, hours ago,
the pounding bangs delayed by distance, crashing

ghost-like after the explosions bloomed and faded.

The lights, the smoke, the sounds have disappeared,
and now, the air is still and dark and sinks,

filling in the space between us, brooding.
Our words are notes that rise like blue balloons,
above the trees and power lines, they burst
too high above for us to catch the sound.

Still, it is another autumn past, and we’re strangers

dragging cold toes in damp sand, drawing maps

and making x’s, marking hometowns as we watch

the endless razor waves that leap against the shore.