Perhaps if every night were so laden
practical life would grind to a halt—
the fields untilled, shops unopened,
schools unminded—for who can bear
mere survival in the face of, dare I say
it, such romance? We dance like
matches on the cusp, curious, eager,
held back by an elemental awe, not of
fire but of circumstance, hearts
pumping the thick blood of wonder
while shopkeepers hold their breath,
wonder if we will unbare life’s deepest
secret, lie down in its most blissful
void, or call it a night so that tomorrow
—coffee in hand, wallet laden with
its quotidian currency—we can exhale,
make the first meeting of the new day.