Amid dusk when the sky
was peppered sour orange
and the sun sat sideways,
we watched a notch
of a meteor blister
and break above us.
We are watching history, she said,
hands trembling.
Make a wish, he replied,
his voice cracking
and tumbling into orbit.
She squeezed her eyes shut
and I did too,
wanting beyond belief
at that blushed
collapse of something
so unworldly.
We wished
on that key-stroke ribbon
of interminable bloom,
dragging itself
across the country
and overflowing the horizon,
believing that it flew for us.
Us, so content in gazing
skyward, believing that
our wishes were justified
and looked so
everlastingly endless.
