Tiffany Noonan

How I wonder

            what you are
with palms cupped.
Little bug bottle.
Bodies tar-black
against sunset. July’s
children come home
star-handed. Fireflies
wave on — off —
on. Fingers curl
like aster petals.
Hands open. Light
escapes toward me.
Moving now. Faster.
We become the
lamps that remain.

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