Always as if for the first time, we watch the fireworks as if no-one had ever done this before, made shapes, signs cut diamonds on air, sent up stars nameless, imperious. And in the falling of fire, the spent rocket, there is a kind of nostalgia, as normally only attaches to things long known and lost. Such an absence such emptiness of sky the fireworks leave after their festival. We, fumbling for words of love, remember the rockets the spinning wheels, the sudden diamonds and say with delight “Yes, like that, like that” Oh and the air is full of falling stars surrendered. We search for a sign.