are orphans, darling, expecting
to be adopted by constellations
lighting a billion Fourth
of July stories in the
blink of a lizard’s eye.
Young stars shine,

if you recall, the brightest.
We see them pressed like
boiling lard against an indigo sky.
Embers from our campfire
circle in our fullness of age
burning melancholic verse about time

lost enjoying too much bourbon.
We sit with orange faces longing for
maturity and comfortable seating.
A fire smolders in our bloodlines.
Staring down freckles on weathered hands.
We are all bemoaning, darling,
that’s the irony of burning bridges.