I see two shooting stars. You see none.
On this night we remember to bring a blanket,
flat against Vilano’s shore. Broken shells
make sand beneath us, pulling the wave hips
whooshing alongside, sticking us together, pushing
from the shore—Then a distant rumbling, clouds
blurring the horizon, muffled sighs. Up in the sky,
chariot points to the one fissure not filling with stars.
There’s nothing empty in all that penetrating velvet
blue-black, when you gaze long enough: peeling
forgotten moments, emptiness comforting
the stiff breeze. There’s haze, each other’s sweat,
humid air. No lightning, we watch far-off shrimp
boats blinking red and cream. Looming, the shore’s
lighthouse stands higher than everyone, alone
on the peninsula, head forever whirring, searching.
