Home back then
our lies were so infrequent
so too the lights, which came only
a few at a time

I remember the fireflies
at the old house, how infrequent
they were in our well-adorned city
how in a flicker they’d strike
against rust and trampoline mushrooms
growing on the old swingset and cause
such chemical stillness

I used to hold my breath for that stillness
and when the flies went out
I would carry on their flight
with my eyes, desperate for the little men
to restart their packs
and shoot back up. I wonder now
if they wanted to be seen, or not seen
and which one actually
burns them. I haven’t seen any

for a while now. Is this why
we rush home? To watch as the fireflies
swerve around hard minerals
in the night, get complacent and
catch flame to their vehicles?
I go inside, shut the door.
Life has never once
leaned its head in and said, Hey,
aren’t you forgetting something?

My keys have never once
been the earring of a beautiful
home, yet here I am in the one
I settled for, locked up from the night

faint by the certainty
of something

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