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Outside, children snag fireflies in the fallow field,
     return home,
cupped hands lighthouses of flight,
countless brilliant lantern-heads surrounded by bone.  

Later, caged in a mason jar set before the window—
the bronze disk of its lid slipped open for air—  a handful of fireflies lie folded
beneath a single gust of grass,

night’s storm angled through the curtains, this glass apocalyptic
speckled with random bulbs of rain,
each flickering streetlamp multiplied and shimmering
as the flies try again to ignite their pyres—

   constellations descended, an echo of fire.

Blueline Review, Spring 2010

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