The last campfire was beside Lake Geneva, and the night was clear for it but I cannot recall if there were stars. 

I recall the tears and the dock, the tone and length of the argument, the distant conversation, a light 

suspended in the washing dark, a boat drifting, windows, the flat glow of a streetlamp, 

the rage silent, the exhaustion, the longing, and the chiming laughter from the woods - but I did not look up for the stars. 

Two lights are set in the sky tonight, hanging as close as lovers; there is the distant conversation, windows in the dark, 

and calm quiet, gentle fires, cloves burning to crack and pop.