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