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.