Night blooming jasmine, smoke leftover from fireworks, your body and air lingering in the heat wave like it’s a vow. An entire galaxy compressed into a piece of sky is hanging over you like a reminder that the night is young and the days are long but a life is short. Run it like an orchestral arrangement, an electric crescendo running at high fever. Noon is time for staccato, a kind of dance you can measure, but your bones are way past that now. Drag them back into the light, any light will do.