In the shrubs, icicle lights flickered their duplicitous red-green.
Red. Green. Red.
Stop, go. Stop, go. Stop.
We were two near empty champagne glasses together
Not quite enough to make a sip, but just enough to make
It a little less lonely there on the edge
Of a year.
Behind the screen door they moved forward at the
Distant drop of a ball while we, two strangers,
sat divided by a line of mortar on a porch stair
From those moss bricked steps, it smelled
Like fire and wet ground,
And I imagined all the other-lives twinkling
They danced a rhythm discordant to our own.
The lights blinked:
Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop.
What I would have given for a yellow light
So I could have floored us straight though
Where lines left uncrossed became braided