Pillow Forts

Your fort is the smallest haven
of tree and brick and feather.
We drink and our brains simmer
languidly, between the walls.

I can focus on points of light
distantly, while you speak of
import, ships on fire and the
greatest steps you ever made.

Your fort is like a den,
white, electric, sunken and still
made from shadow puppets and
steeped, swelling tea leaves.

We can forget our names here
leave them at the pillowed door
under the arch of feathers
and sink into the floor boards.

The backs of chairs hold up our sky
drifting golden above us
as though there was no reason
ever, to leave.