Not quite pitch black:
Grime-coated rusty streetlights
looming over echoing, overused, underused
grey tar ridden with cavities.
Not quite silent:
Crickets and frogs
and horns and distant music
and somewhere, water splashing,
everywhere, people in peril.
Yet somnolence hangs heavy
yawning in humid early summer sky.
No place for the sleepless;
burning lamp but a distant speck,
not old enough to matter,
too old not to.
Almost. But not quite.

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