Turns

 

Frivolous, delicate
They find their way to it
In glimmering, late light
In August:
                where we sit
And try to do our best
To give complaint a rest,
Keep conversation light,
Improve the time 'til dusk
Is lost inside the night;

Mind pauses like a fish.
These turns I like to praise—
Frivolous, delicate,
Adrift on the late light,
On front porch August days,

The cheering, glassed-in bulb
They long to flutter near,
Translucent as a hope.
We play at staying clear
Of what we'd like to say.
We talk.
             The night becomes
A night cluttered with moths.

 

Gregory Jerozal