Aubade

When the last of the fireworks

fizzles into grey-green night

under a lonely streetlight,

mosquitos retire, drunk,

the air’s as dense as local honey

and sweet, I’ll retire in your arms

Because upon waking, we’ll miss

this thickness portending loss,

the dozen verses sung in darkness

simply for sake of time, and wait

out pacing hours until the chance

again arrives to imbibe on shadows

Late entry for Play It Again in the Imaginary Garden