Meeting people in the backyard of a party is fun.
Released from the atmosphere, we kind of fall
towards earth to land and fold the parachute balled
inside our arms into its compartment, the sun
is dead and gone, the stars hide within the light
from the city’s veil we stand beneath in the yard
beside some blackened citronella candles and charred
grate of a broken weber grill, and begin to get quite
drunk. This is the part, at last, where we all need
each other, where we talk about whatever we can, the day
is gone, we can’t see constellations. Our hearts bleed
for what we find in each other’s heads, it has to stay
that way, beautifully, we can’t take it. The sun has set.
We fell out of the stars. It’s in us too, it’s just we forget.
Jonathan Aprea wrote Dyson Poems (Monster House Press)