don't make me move

A girl walks
By tossing her angel hair
With rosewood chopsticks;

The twilit wind makes her
Skirt swish. It is time, I say, for
Revelry and exhaustion in the waterways,
But everyone is leaving, and frantic
They seem to know
Where or, at least, to extract
The last from the last.

The redbud lights seem
To have gone out,
But the moon reflects on the metal
Plate embedded in the tree,
And people are going home for the summer,
Just as the nights are growing longer,
And the weather ripening for youth.
It is time for workers to think of holiday,
But all the youth are thinking now of work.