“It’s like walking into a dream. As though it is someplace else
                     entirely and not simply another
                        tent…” 
                                                                        –       Celia, “The Night Circus” 

Days indicating heat, by degrees
above record, and now, newly night—

a breeze—like a breath—
fresh air like secrets whispered
from strawberry moon full to the lip
of this glass of cherry
moscato

I drink; I sink into summer
and red cushions seeming black
in the dark of a familiar
deck, one languid sip
at a time

of my choosing.

Somewhere, a boy
in the shape of a man
            fashions ice
in the shape of a garden

that is not this
garden
              below,
but someplace else

entirely, and not
simply a new place

to live.  I breathe
humidity like water
like air, grounded
in the fires

of imagination
and call it

a gift;
a future.