Over the balcony eave, seaside,
One after another, the rockets arc
Barely into view, each sudden thud
Rollmg from behind the brickface.
We used to say the rockets “burst,â€
As though speaking of someone’s heart—
Star-beam, dream-light, bright spokes
Wheeling, falling in a sort of glory.
One summer, in an orchard in Manteca,
The scent of peaches was like fog,
The dust rose and settled like fog,
And both of us went waving sparklers.
You ran on, out farther, tracing
Spirals high in the air. They stayed
Long after the light went, after you
And the heavy, sweet trees were one.
Now I close my eyes and find only
Traces of those wiry figures burned
Into the night. They are fading as
They must, and as they always do.
Whatever shines, however briefly,
We tend toward and love perhaps,
Grounded as we are in the literal—
The powder, the ashes the earth.