The stars all started going out
You slowly exhaled.
The wind crept, twisting
through the sloping grass
spanning away beneath
miles of power lines.
From your mouth, the smoke
curled over its own shadows,
dull blue on thick white
under the moon.
“What if the stars
all started going out
one by one–”
I saw filaments crackling
their last fits inside glass
bulbs–“until they all
were dark.” Another slow
glow as you took
another draw–the warm
light spilling up to your
eyebrows. Holding it in
as the glow failed,
and exhaling again:
“I wonder” (you passed it over
to me) “how far you could go
before you couldn’t see
at all?” We thought, tucked in
under the grass. My drag
canoed a cavernous
gape up the fat belly,
exposing the curling contents
of our secret talk.
You cursed, and took it back.
I held it in, low
in a lung’s tense hold.
I thought of stars above
the power lines, the arms
raised up and crackling
with strength above
the bending grass, the
fitful wind–one by one,
like rows collapsing
in a warehouse, shutting
off. How long would
my eyes hold out,
discerning the last wet
glance of liquid light
bounce off one pinstriped
piece of grass, stumble
over its edge
into memory? I heard
you struggle beside me
to reconvene my error
in the darkness–I took
the opportunity the canoe
offered and curled beneath
the waving shadows,
controlling my breath
and trying to repent.