the door
won't stop swinging
in the breeze

the water
in the kettle
whistles
while the blue
flames
dance
like the indians
did
in Peter Pan

the sky leaks
a lilac bruise
that taints
my eyes
and darkens
this empty
room

the chinese lanterns
hang
double as long
in the reflection
of the window
extending
to the trees

and i wonder
if your hand
feels like the warm patterns
of light
that they throw