last year we walked
across the starfields
of fireflies flaring
like love that burns
behind closed eyes
after light has faded
now it’s the droning
roar of cicadas
that wait 17 years
to make love
i’d rather disappear
alone into the night sky
than be swept en masse
from the sidewalk
but who is given
to choose or even knows
when they’ll tumble
unheard or
be crushed underfoot
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