photo credit: Felix Meyer
Samir Guglani
Fireworks
The stars we see, our son says,
are they ghosts? Night’s deep field lit
by instances of willow or passed sunlight
pressed through leaves. His hand
cloth soft in mine and we’re talking rockets,
their simple trick of separating match flare
from bang – how sound, even light
must arrive in time.
Fireworks
The stars we see, our son says,
are they ghosts? Night’s deep field lit
by instances of willow or passed sunlight
pressed through leaves. His hand
cloth soft in mine and we’re talking rockets,
their simple trick of separating match flare
from bang – how sound, even light
must arrive in time.
I start to answer but he’s gone
from one moment to the next
as have I, to that night years back
before him or us when you find me
waiting in the station’s brief glow and drive
us home under a print of fireworks,
silenced by some music you play
to this, here, tomorrow morning –
how I wake again to my hand on your back,
a constellation of freckles
as if you were the sky
or an inversion of it, reached for,
lived in but always just gone.