He told me there are no fireflies here.
Some eyes are virgin to the glow

They are replaced by white moths,
Lit by headlights before suicide.

I spied a spotted crow,
Perched atop a white iron cross.

He picks insects from the foxtails,
Waving along the black ribbon path.

I found the fireflies under a knotted branch,
Little bodies sleeping in a quilt of goose down.

I gathered the small ones in my jacket pockets,
To put them in the jelly-jars they once lit.

But I have forgotten where I’ve put the jars,
And the fireflies are no longer lit.