Perseids, Later

                        —for Evan

            A tease of clouds intermits
the searing blueblack. Cicadas
drone in a 3 a.m. silence
            and I fall back

            onto an Army blanket, 1956,
a meadow outside Ithaca, lying with sister
and brother, in the grip of fierce 
            dreams and longings, my skin

            alive with up,
drawn to the studded dark, whose
tiny burns might be those of a sparkler
            twirled too fast.

            This night, as you sleep inside,
I lift binoculars to contain
these pricking lights, which

            yet still pull me
to them. Your dream wafts from the house,
a stay. In waning heat, in my thin
            nightshirt, I feel

            the years accordion,
and I shiver. Each of us
gets to be vast sometime. Three                     
            meteors streak

            the length
of a star-glazed strand
of my hair. How can the birds sleep
            in this confetti of light?


Veronica Patterson
Driftwood Press Review