and bathed in it, sitting in the evenings
on Adirondacks we bought from some
Mexicans who made them and drove them around
in a pickup, unfinished, thirty dollars a pop.
We painted one blue and one aqua.
The birds we watched seemed wing-damaged:
we always caught them curving left (their left),
and we worried it was harbinger of some
unforeseeable thing. Their bodies sent them
into tighter and tighter arcs. So it seemed.
I drank my beer, sitting in my aqua chair,
and my mother sat in the blue by me, with her
iced-tea in the tall plastic cup. Those evenings
the sky was broken by darting shapes, curving left,
always as if under an unseen dome, as if that dome
they say that housed the stars that were really gods
directed them with their gaze toward that horizon
and not this one, the one from which the sun
would come, if it came at all.