There were crickets.
Their rhinestone grind chipping
away at the darkest flints of night.
There were sparks of light.
That could be cinders, could be moths
or fireflies, could be the tears
of stars thrown down as spears.
There was the thrum from some
old guitar blowing smoke,
a discord of chords
redolent of camp fires
and scorched coffee.
There was suspense, the sense
that something was about
to happen. All this to set
the scene for a poem
I thought I wrote. A candle,
a comet, a meteor
burning up at both ends
that did not last the night.
