running last night;
in the warm effervescence of the oncoming summer
the cicadas had not yet begun their chirping, but
the merry nylon lights of fireflies
sprouted out of the deep turquoise dim.

they flitted to me,
their dance a light halo o'er me; they crowned
the soft breeze and rode along my shoulder,
accidentally colliding into my calf;
meanwhile the place between my breasts
grew damp.

and, dearest,
there I caught one:
between my flesh and shirt, the tiny thing
fluttering and beating its wings and
painting me up with its dust, dancing
but caught. And its distress
was remarkable.

so, dearest,
I ne'er broke my stride,
but lifted my shirt all the same
and I swung free into the night and
no streetlamp befell my taught amazonian form;

our aforementioned friend took wing gratefully
lit briefly in my hair and
set itself right into the darkness
winking itself in retrospect and
pondering that brush of flesh.