On a warm August evening

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August

Late August night,
I'm dozing in bed —

crickets sturdily cheeping —
elm nodding its head —

suddenly, flare!
glaring swath —

star, plummeting —
singed path.


If only some giant
had tossed that huge ball

through galaxy air —
if it hadn't fallen

and snuffed itself out
blazing along its arc,

but lay safe, nestled
in a glove in the dark

(a fireproof mitt:
thick clouds, congealed) —

the fielder pivoting
at the edge of the field. . .

- by Elise Partridge in the collection, Fielder's Choice


 




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