After a broom falls

Drizzle and flame over the rivers’ banquet and a kingdom of dragonflies on my back.

Surf the Kosava wind and then hover, watch the rocking chair still swinging goodnight.

Back in the midday sun, with roasted cheeks and a necklace of scars, I face the longest day without hours. No matter, Father says I look prettier this way.

A stop at the club on my way to the funeral house, I wander, were there ever enough fireflies in that forest of yours to guide us back?