"Twenty-four Lines after Dusk" by John A. Nieves from SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

Twenty-four Lines after Dusk

The sun cigarette-dove onto the ash-
tray horizon. We waved the new night
like airport batons guiding the spent
dreams of the snuffed day. The stoplights
weren't stopping light, but making
it. I heard you across the way singing
promises to emerging worms and lightning
bugs. I wished I could wish your promises
kept. I kept wishing. Old roads decided
they had held up enough and crumbled
themselves to sleep. The radiowaves
admitted how lonely they were not being
sure anyone was listening. Please I said
to you but pretended I was talking to a passing
gnat swarm. Please I said and meant how
much I wanted with every part of me. Please.
And you were still promising and I was still
wishing and maybe we were both reaching
but there was no way to know without you
knowing I was asking. Accidental secrets
were piling so high the owls were craning
their necks to see what was scurrying around
us. I hoped they would dive and take it, put it
to some use.

Copyright © 2025 John A. Nieves All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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