Suburban Isles

6 gentle strands

drift with the wind

between isles of houses

they sing out my name

and 

for hours

i sit in sound

festering 

peering

through crystal walls

from marble eyes 

fall memories of love 

and company

cascading into mason jars

to be collected

and saved

for later

i sit

alone,

defeated

in a liminal space

waiting to take my place

amid patches of intermittent brown—

the dead spots.

among an endless stretch of things lush

and leafy.

gathered here by maudlin whistles

the overture of ethereal winds

their hands float,

forming names at fingertips

looming purgatory

from powerlines,

6 gentle strands

droning songs of melancholy

i listen from my window.

my marbles eyes squelching

angled down

glassy in my paper face

i watch

my patch 

my brown,

my name.

amid a perpetual stretch

of things

lush

and leafy

here,

i am the portion

without life.