Biking home too fast, the darkness

barely lit by my lamp, the moon

just a sliver of blood-orange close

enough to eat; by the banks of the creek

a black cat—the neighbor’s cat?—fishing:

perhaps my small saucers of milk

are not enough, I cannot be his dairy queen,

independent, he fishes alone, then walks down

the bank, his white whiskers glowing, and I

move faster, further, sliding down under the road

into the tunnel—always slightly sinister—as sirens

call to each other, and I slip away, dip down almost

to the lip of the creek and then shoot up to see

the wide expanse of sky and stars, remembering

being young, lying down on the black Texas

road, still sticky from another hot summer day,

as the dark bowl of sky tipped up above us,

as a shower of sugar lights sparkled, some sprinkling

their fire downwards, shooting towards us, our young

bodies shaking with the shudders of our laughter, joy,

half-afraid, half-hoping that some of that fire

would shake itself down, would melt into us.


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