Wherever she is the smoke
follows. It’s weeping out
of the flames from the burning
boxes empty of their flowers,
mostly violets with added pigment
to make them more blue.

The layout of the backyard
couldn’t hide the fact that
this home wasn’t happy.
Sounds of dribbled basketballs
and spinning skateboard wheels
echoed back at them from out
beyond the house because
in the summer nothing ended
with the nighttime.

The ones above them spread
the clouds slightly and looked
down with single eyes
to watch the fire and the flowers
start to dig their way back into
where they came from.

They piled the violets into nets
and on their shoulders
carried them past those still awake
with all their props to keep them occupied.
From the hilltop they let them roll
down the street and spread out everywhere
like corpses on a battlefield.
Upon contact many scattered
into dust.

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