4.03.2021

you can put grass in their jar in the morning

The almost disturbing scent 
of peonies presses through the screens, 
and I know without looking how 
those heavy white heads lean down 
under the moon's light. A cricket chafes 
and pauses, chafes and pauses, 
as if distracted or preoccupied. 
 
When I open my eyes to document 
my sleeplessness by the clock, a point 
of greenish light pulses near the ceiling. 
A firefly . . . In childhood I ran out 
at dusk, a jar in one hand, lid 
pierced with airholes in the other, 
getting soaked to the knees 
in the long wet grass. 
 
The light moves unsteadily, like someone 
whose balance is uncertain after traveling 
many hours, coming a long way. 
Get up. Get up and let it out. 

But I leave it hovering overhead, in case 
it's my father, come back from the dead 
to ask, "Why are you still awake? You can 
put grass in their jar in the morning." 
 

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