The Philharmonic Plays In Central Park And So Do We

Nothing could be finer than these fireflies,

magical as when my sister spilled me from

our too-hot house in late July, and taught

me how to fill a candy jar with light.

We’ve forgotten blankets but no bother, she says,

let me be your lounge. I am ageless, playing games,

heaving laughter in that way, at this late stage,

I was sure my body had misplaced the knowledge for.

I want to bend onto these getting-older knees,

and press a pact between this ground and the rest of me –

to swear on slicked back hair, on the future in our kitchen

that we haven’t lived in yet, to never, ever, ever grow too old for this.


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