Aquarius

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Let’s be like those little plastic stars
that decorate the ceilings of children’s rooms,
that glow, dimly, in arbitrary cosmos,
and shine, not brightly, but enough.

So, I think, all we really need is to stay,
to glow faintly in the darkness of that room,
enough for each other—enough to remind us
that we’re there, alive, even at our dimmest.

Dry summer

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Sometimes, when there are fires,
I think of war and cigarettes.
I think of billowing clouds
of smoke rising to the heavens,
silent, and benevolent.
I wonder how many houses—
filled with old photos, curtains, bed sheets—
have turned into oceans of ash.

Sometimes, when there are fires,
I think of how your house
almost burned down that summer.
The hillside burned obsidian
like the lungs of those not understanding
that, sometimes, there are wars.
Sometimes, there are fires,
and that, always, there will be smoke,
and scorched earth beneath their feet.