Listen

Listen.
The crickets churn their drone in the night, this hot night;
hot ourselves, we lie together.

We snuck here because this night, no special night,
one of small significance, indifferent news,
was the only one we’d have.

So, as mosquitoes dip their meals from us,
as grass, coarse and searching, bedevil us,
we grow restless with itching, with sweat and noisy damp,

yet strain to hear the neutral liveliness of life,
and force ourselves to stay,
because we know someday we will beg time --

if only to itch, to sweat,
to lie together another moment more --
to likewise linger.