Nights Like These
Melanie Cornejo
Late nights of humid days pour themselves not into beds, but old front porches
worn floorboards soak in the ring of a forgotten glass
cold meadow tea, sweating away to the night, ice cubes long gone.
In the tall dry grass, crickets harmonize to the hum of distant motors
the coat of the night drapes itself around tired shoulders, kissed by summer’s sun.
Recklessly and desperately, bursts of light flicker and fade to darkness
all too short-lived, but well spent on nights like these.
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