3

Articulation recedes
into myself; whatever it is
I am comprised of, part of which includes
loving you.

My love for you is not like
a lightbulb, something switched
into darkness as you leave this house,
away from this house into darkness.

My love for you is a glass jar
of fireflies
I have caught, for you, one by one in my hands
on the front lawn, as you watched from the porch
in the long velvet dusk.

A jar that I shake, and watch flicker
when it grows dark, when you have gone home,
when I am awake by the window, the night unstirred,
watching the pensive, quiet lightning; observing the irrelevance
of sleep, and the fireflies

Which were caught for you, which perhaps
exist for this jar,
until the last one drops.

I don't know what
makes fireflies die
by morning.



DC/ DC