Outside, children snag fireflies in the fallow field,
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
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.