At Smith’s Point

In the torrid twilight,
gorgeous figures surround us.
We feast on the immodesty
of the violet glow.

Then we go out with a bang
and a bag full of hash.
Turn to ash later on,
in accordance with the world’s whims.

Night, naturally, boils and brims
with spectacular phantoms,
versions of ourselves
we only knew as children.

-r. miller

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