I. Before I Saw Fireworks
It's the sort of night where anything is
possible, or would be possible if someone
I loved were here, if
I still loved her.
Cars sound
good, Italian opera
music from upstairs, dishes
clanking.
Legs in white
leggings walk by,
equal to trees.
The sort of night to be together
silent,
a few silent words.
The fireworks hadn't
started yet
and we were walking.
Now I hear
their crashes but
don't see them. I
imagine they are
big,
blue, pink.
An independent
day for me.
The shadow of something
looks as big as
a bat.
A moth.
The porch light
goes off .
Tomorrow I'll say,
"I wrote poetry
on my porch
all night."
(got up every five
minutes to turn the porch light back on with
my movement).
It isn't a night of prayers,
or prayers being answered subtly,
with glimmer!
And it's silent.
Mosquitoes bite through my jeans,
skin and right pinky knuckle.
II. On Grass
I saw some firework
corners.
I'm showing these
mosquitoes who's boss by
letting them bite me through my
clothes.
I stood
still,
uncomfortable,
seeing red, green
and
the moon, the neighbor,
large
sliver,
humble and proud at once,
knows it is more beautiful than the whole production
I want to cry.
I even try to,
but my mouth is dry and nothing comes out,
though it sits silently in me,
like the moon,
patient through explosions.
Not knowing how to react to
artificial light.
The moon is
real light.
No starburst colors, no flavors,
no preservatives.
So I will give up on today
the moon shining evenly,
making it safe for those who sleep.
