August Twenty-Second

   it was dark not stormy,
      as nights will be
   and there are a thousand points of light
   and more, for there are many not seen for each that is
   and they are massing, each light
      a platoon and they are massing,
   and now, the mass is moving
   and the lights are going out,
   God must not see them coming,
   they must look like stars,
   and if they are backlit by a streetlamp,
   fly up a tree and now,
   they are storming heaven,
   lightning cannot strike its bugs,
   and six winged angels cannot fly,
   their wings get in the way,
   and their halos, fireflies, not fire,
   disperse and the fireflies pull off all six wings
   and then, God himself strides out
   but trips on unlit fireflies
   and falls to his fallen angels,
   and everybody roasts,
   and thanks Him for his bounty.

   and the fireflies light up,
   and there was light.

   Last night the fireflies stormed heaven,
      and conquered, then, the angels fell.

      it was grey, not blue
      as night skies will be,
   and there were a thousand trees,
      blocking each a thousand more
      and fickle, the wind blows
   and gathers vortices,
      and how the winds are flowing
      around trees
       and between trees
   and under leaves on sidewalks
   and no one knows
      and weak winged birds cannot fly
      and an eagle banks away,
    it cannot land or dive
   the wind is not beneath its wings
      and coldly flows wind
   through a wall and past a streetlamp
      and gathers,

   eddies follow vortices follow circles of wind
   raising and dancing and twisting the leaves
   and they twirl mad their paths that never touch the ground.

   Last night fireflies stormed heaven
      and conquered, then, the angels fell.

      it was quiet with motions
      as night sounds will be,
   and a thousand voices cry
   in the wilderness
   and there is no one to hear them
   and a tree falls
   making no sound
   clatter scratching sidewalks
   crinkle crushing leaves
   and pawing through the grass
      creaking through the night
   howls the rustling
   and trips on unlit lamps
   noises center around
    around to hear
   and draw in closer
     quiet with their motion
   but they say so much
     if only it could be understood,
   and still silence is not
    quiet motion.

   Last night fireflies stormed heaven
    and conquered, then, the angels fell.

   There is a man alone.  

      Fireflies have conquered heaven,
   but her wants have conquered love. There is a man
   and slow in motion; she has given him no hurry.

   Perhaps to he who waits
   comes the voice and words 
   female, from what he wants to hear.

   Last night, fireflies stormed heaven.

   And conquered then,
   his spirit falls.

   His mother called him Son,
   and he walks the park tonight.