The stars peck our eyes as the night’s
chemical grin rises. The wind plants
a good-luck kiss on your cheek. We climb
down the ladder, my hands behind your knees
as we clear the last rungs. We have always
touched as strangers; now our hands slide around
each other lizard-like in a dark
kitchenette. A party hums and burns
past midnight as we tumble towards dawn.
Here comes tomorrow: a blowtorch slicing
through twilight’s softened metal.
And — that’s that!
Sometimes the last show is the very first gig.
Everybody wants commemoration;
I guess this is ours. Here come the warm jets.
— ZACK CARSON
Zack Carson is a poet and musician from Asheville NC, currently working towards an MFA at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. His work has been published in The Shore, Soundings East, and Burningword Literary Journal, among others.