The fireflies are blinking at me
like your cigarette used to
and my mind is wand'ring,
also, like it used to.

And I'm sitting alone, in the dark of the night,
the way I have always done.
Here, and not here.
Her, and not her.
And nothing could be farther than you, who are eclipsed
by the motion of other spectral, planetary objects
which are not objectively objectionable.

And if my eyes dilate enough,
and my gaze is unsteady enough,
A pattern emerges in the sexual maturity of distant beings.

There, in the overwhelming but incomplete darkness,
I feel like myself, for once, but don't trust the feeling,
and after a while I crush it out.