Come summer,
night rises clear and cool,
slate blue, like water off Lake Eerie
and each house down the street
from yours clicks on a porch light.
Past the road sign, the parking lots
turn incandescent, all quiet,
but for the churn of tires
against the street gravel
and the now and again pop
of a firework in the west.
There is nothing for you here.
The small weight of your life
has followed you,
and you settle into the earth,
the small sounds of crickets, the
mint.
All around you, the fireflies rise
up and down, turn on and off,
like promises.