some how

by Marie Nunalee

we
every one
in the lines of
our palms
in the curve of
the path in the
puff of a pipe lazily
hazily filling the
open gash of grey
void above
tiny matted
frames in the
pointy dot of
light
bobbing
toward us in
the night

we scoop the marbles
from our weatherbeaten
yellow grassy circle

and we stand to
locate the way