Beneath Dark Jacarandas, After the
Documentary Film
BY Robert Joe Stout
Laughter rises in quick spurts
—embarrassed, startled, coy—
like fireflies, he thinks, sudden flicks
of feeling ricocheting group to group,
faces flaring in and out beneath dim
lantern lights. All there seem young,
arms around each other, backpacks swaying
as they argue, tease, caress. Then moonlight
sifting through the leaves brings other faces,
voices, other films, other lips
exploring his, like flowers budding
from old plants, each new and different
but the same, catching light and gleaming,
fireflies more sensed than seen, then gone.