From http://trickwithaknife.com/?p=771#comments
It’s first fireflies that charm children
And lure tiny yet firm fingers
To catch sources of light. Even
Extinguished there is still value:
A new hunger for bright colors.
They get older and chase lights on
A road, driving to drink. Party
On beach sand as explosions in
The sky over the bay shower
Corrupt white buds of gunpowder
On waves; rocks. And the smell: sulfur
And salt—vodka. They know this is
Not quite; almost it. Bright halo
From downtown is the source; neon:
What love must be like. Lusty
And red; taking the light spent, it
Entraps what does not die; trashes
The rest. Trinkets of lust, trifles
Of lost people who seek out the
Mementos they have lost: beaches
Are filled up with expense: condoms,
And glass shards and an ash pile that
The tide chokes on. The hot embers
Of youth die on the sand; fading
As winds blow all the best times out.
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