Fire and magic, in stacks, are sinking down from the sky
as thirsty shadows rise up from their paper thin graves
to drink darkness coming like rain on the evening's tide.
I can hear the trapped dark waters asking to be freed
every time I move to lift the frosted bottle to my lips,
downing bittersweet tangs drawn from mint tea leaves.
And too the stinging sear of fermented poison fighting
to scald its way down my throat for a chance to break
what little there is to affect between me and the bottle.
Crickets sing symphonies to call to the coming cool air
and me gone with all of the broken specks of light; we
fly to the buzz, hoping for a safe place to spend the night.