Porchlights On Fire

Outside; the orange porchlights are dim
as any dying fire; but the shadows they cast
are decided, not moving as natural flames
might have rendered the outline of my body
against the side of this house. I am in focus;
can you still see me?

I can't see so well. I like to think
you would be here, part of the porch, talking
on a night like this, with lights like these,
clear and solid shadows against the wall-
if you were a permanent piece of this place,
I might have stayed out there, in the rain,
for however long we believed these drops
could carry beauty to the grass in dew.

If I stumble to the ground,
I might have hit my head on you:
but would you catch me gently;
and might we have some rest
from all this stone and granite?

Fires die and spark anew,
at any given moment
but what about electricity
nonstop and ever-present
traveling wires;
humming like cicadas
in all this evening's glory?


-e.










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