My brother and I would crouch
like India indians on our heels, empty
porcelain banks, counting with
precision, the avidity of pirates
flickering around our blue eyes and
famous fingers.
When all the coins
passed, we fished
from blue chairs, hungry
over a carpet
striped like bass.
Today we talk through
improbable wires about nothing,
lost between the branches
of flight and imagination,
believing ourselves secure
on oceans of lawn furniture,
cats caught in trees.
I keep breaking out
and he keeps digging in.
We drift further and
further apart.
orphan poems 