The Fireflies are dead.
The city lights still remain
but suffer no loss or humane shimmer
as any star should.
The doubt has evaporated,
but the basin has dried out:
and the Metropolitan has grown dimmer,
The ever-shivering blackout.
Sickly, the morning mist
and aching eyes leave nothing to the blue-gray,
only invisible-- I cover my eyes.
The radiance of those nights I once knew
--the luminescent breath of the city at your window--
--your beautiful smile as we drifted into dreams
behind my eyelids;
the erratic R.E.M.
and the eternal fever.