At the block party, old neighbors chatter around the bean dip. 
It’s warm in the street, a smoky light laid everywhere. 

This far in, we’ve learned the words for gone—
thirty years of ambulances whisking the eldest away—

while little by little, we’ve worked at joy, 
how it holds a gun aimed at the cold silence of the stars. 

Listen, the bullet says. And, Yes and No. 
So we drink and laugh, while school-age kids kick a ball,

angling for the highest score. Down here
on this patch of dirt, I’d like to propose another law of war, 

one that specifies how far from the front 
we must carry the collateral damage with us, 

especially into an evening like this, 
happiness arming itself with the newest two-year-old, 

dark curls, dark-eyed, in a white dress. 
Unsmiling, it’s dead serious, 

how she wants me to watch her jump
as we stand on either side of time. 

Above us, the elms touch, spreading their canopy 
across the street into a bridal tent, and yes, 

we must wed ourselves to each other 
while we can, October’s leaves staining red, falling faster now.