Fireflies

She is saying goodbye
to an old friend.
Discordant telephone cord
pulls itself away
as mosquitoes emasculate;
warm summer night.
Her voice lingers in the humidity
perspiration
drips, slides;
empty whispers.

Crickets and cicadas circa 1947,
running through fields at midnight
riding the bike pass the gallows
that was Uncle Mike’s,
tender breeze through hair
like a mother’s stroke.
Shoe soles stomping cigarette buds
in haste,
driving through cliffs
diving into continuum (then)
holding out for whatever comes.
No more.

All is left—
rustling leaves
sepia tinted photographs
tattered edges;
reminiscences of warm summer nights
retold to a child.

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