Under the fading peach of the sky,
buildings glimmer
with ochre shadows:
the color of late-night visits to the diner
and sweet, sticky air.
City falling into delirious semi-sleep,
we collect fireflies in our hands
and feel the rustle of wings
against our fragile palms.
The lady in the striped apron
wipes down the counter,
mopping days of grime onto her towel.
Laugh.
Open your hands
and watch dancing lights
fade into fluorescence.
