Adieu to City Lights

by Avery Dietz



Do you remember that summer night?

You found me, a flower—wilted


amidst a ripened patch. You picked my roots

and placed in snug ceramic on front seats


of polyester. 71 is swaddled

in streetlights, passing like stars


from different lifetimes. The cursive

of neon bars, a reddened diamond


horseshoe, the overhead shine of a tower too big

for an insurance company, all soak me


in iridescent rays, but this is a different kind

of photosynthesis. For a moment,


I have forgotten you, the blue hue

of your iris, as it swallows the light


to expel it more beautifully. Tomorrow

you fly for a place unknown,


unfastened from the world

as it fixates its spotlight for you. Tomorrow


I want you to search for that same light, allow your gaze

to cast no shadow, even as your eyes collide with fireworks


and illuminate azure across the night sky. But for now,

you take the 471, the long way home


from this city of lights. Tomorrow

my petals may fall, my stem light 


an empty spine with no head, but for now,

I feel less withered, chloroplasts full


of sapphire tinted sunlight. If my leaves

could form lips to speak, they may mutter


a thank you, or confess my love

for lightwaves bathed in shades of blue, but for now,


I'm just content with being the flower

you chose amidst a ripened patch.


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