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FOR THIS SUBLIME SUMMER NIGHT

Darryl Peters

A pink-red sun sulks behind

the west-blown smoke of burning British Columbia while

a choir of crickets is lost

somewhere in unobserved score,

singing beautiful chaos.

​

The conductor is huffy;

he’s stabbing a baton in

furious accusation,

calling measure eighty-three,

but he—snob, classically trained—

doesn’t understand the score.

​

The composer, though, cavorts

& smiles, smug & satisfied,

wandering the smoky streets,

& wondering how soon the

rains will come. Cherubs amuse

themselves with flashbulbs above

clouds holding biblical rain,

called by electricity

of new love’s first touch.


The lovers hear not the song—

though the crickets sing for them—

nor see the cherubs display—

though dazzling, wild and playful—

nor mind the first raindrops ‘gainst

the window, for they are lost

in slow touch & lazy kiss,

with bright eyes outshining their

sun’s sullen dip to make way

for this sublime summer night.

For This Sublime Summer Night: About Me
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