the bottles lie still upon the porch swing
filled with two lovers, basking in the light
of a sixty-watt bulb that sings
with a soft, low hum. the moths’s flights
around the beams form a synchronized dance—
the steps swell like honey bees who in their rights
pluck sweet nectar and colors which enhance
sensations from the lovers’ discourse—
swooning like the swinging and creaky chain. the trance
from the splitting white wood slams with force
like the way two lovers lean in to kiss
until the swaying has ceased and the creaking is hoarse.
the blackened night: euphoria such as this
when the flickering of a sixty-watt bulb is bliss.