When the last of the fireworksfizzles into grey-green nightunder a lonely streetlight,mosquitos retire, drunk,the air’s as dense as local honeyand sweet, I’ll retire in your armsBecause upon waking, we’ll missthis thickness portending loss,the dozen verses sung in darknesssimply for sake of time, and waitout pacing hours until the chanceagain arrives to imbibe on shadows
Late entry for Play It Again in the Imaginary Garden