My hidden muse,
My sodden sun,
Friend to outcasts,
Tripper of lounge music,
We welcome you.
That space of twilight,
That hour between,
Peach and palmetto
Lisping in the dusk.
This blue chip of loss,
Such passionate warfare,
I pale next to its preponderance.
Light years lying low in the lowlands.
A flit of light on the screen,
The first firefly this hot and lonely season,
Self imposed by the Constable of sonnets,
A priest of Psalms for your rainy day.
I walk barefoot to the swings,
Drink beneath the cool, wet grass,
As the moon rises, sluicing to clouds
In the last, pink vista of sun,
Looking for the last edges of Americana,
Dying in the grass.