Round and round

The slate grey plates are round.
The orange candles, too.
And the mouth of the green glass vase
that holds the dark red flowers--
standing on its round base--
under the open window
with the rain making cold round
pools in the street outside.

The table is square and so is the rug
and there are angles everywhere,
just below the surface.
We pass the wine around, though,
and the conversation circles and loops
between where we've been
and where we might never go.
We've been here before, though.

The light on the porch wreaths a halo
round your head. Inside I hear his full
voice unrolling round the tin edges of her laugh.
Later, we will spin circles around the room
while Dwight Yoakam sings his mournful song.
For now, though, your words float
like smokerings above my head
while the rain makes cold round
pools in the street beyond.

There are bands that bind and then there
are the arrows that always just miss
the red round heart of the mark.
We've been here before. We will come here again.
And the Moon will spin round
the Earth and the Earth will go
round and round and round the Sun
and we will do our best to hold on.

for JLS