by Daniel Lawless
an affectation
in the South— but plainer:
lightning bugs.
Not as the poets would have it, you dears
carrying your little lanterns behind you,
green stars, or the faulty strike of a match;
not as you once imagined
the visiting souls of your dead parents.
Only you, poor boy, lonely god
of the backyard,
and these flickering insects
trapped in a juice glass,
to be smeared between your fingers
or, tapped with a stick,
set free with a magician’s flourish,
according to your cold your wondrous heart.
