Night will be upon us like an open-
throated vase; we'll find ourselves

on the inside, eyeing up through the neck
at our future in the stars, the raw face

of inconstant moon, darkness like
the ratty copy of Hamlet I found

in the garage with half the pages eaten.
We will spade up the old tulip garden

and bury Charlie, the charcoal-faced
chihuahua you loved like everything

God had commanded the fire not to burn.
We'll try to hold steadfast as our bodies,

that capricious flesh, dissolve into song.

They kicked a ball between them, a soccer ball
an uncle made by sewing sheep bladders together.
A pair of budding azalea bushes served as the goal.
The older boy stopped to adjust his glasses when it began.
A baby wailing, the younger boy thought, remembering
Hiroko's colic and the bleary-eyed months until she grew
out of it. Maybe some sort of bird, the older boy wondered.
A noise filled the day with shrill, a thunder screech of bright.
Then it grew hot and the ball burst. The rush of air knocked
the younger into a patch of wild roses, blood oozed from
the thorn-wounds. The older boy shrieked as the lenses
of his glasses fused to his eyes. Then he began to melt
like a crayon left outside in summer, first orange,
then purple, then blue-red; he bled into the grass.
The younger boy wept as the light uncoiled over him,
afraid their mother would be angry if they weren't home
in time for supper; to lose, to have lost, meaning eternal.