things in the mirror

Late night in the playground, the upside down metronome of swings, our faces wet with stars. Listen close, the slow burning hum of motion, our hurtling. How we learn movements. Some motions irrevocable, round as stones. Above the dark hangs ellipses, a bird whispers over looking for treetops, our hands hanging apart in the air sleepy and dry. This is an accident.

He runs in all directions at once. Suppose we don’t try. The slow giving up. The fridge empty. Again. I am a small thing in a small room now. Some things look better burning. Air ceases being air. Dust motes hang amber, tired. He always had a theory for things, but these are the sommersaults. A german word, maybe, for tumbling. From the Latin for leaving. The decompression of rooms. Nature loves a vacuum. Loves a gap in the floor. A small thing now.