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
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