There was a squall inside the music.
Diagonal, like a misread line, something
sat obscure. In the grass,
there were ten thousand small, lit displays,
quelling the moon and perhaps its gravity.
Valorously, the fireworks abandoned
their souls, massively drifting—
a suspended infinitive alphabet.
I was susceptible to reading.
Tobacco smoke drifted by, so I began
to float away on it. Really, there was no
music, but it began the evening.