The fireflies are frantically signalling, but singly,
taunting like a game of incandescent whack-a-mole;
slight movements in the grass, not lingering, just tingly,
tiny flares that die as our eyes race and gambol.
Are these the night-school teachers, nihilists
in approach, enlightening by what they just extinguished?
Like the brevity of memory (goodbyes that still beguile us),
each torch is scorched much sooner than we’d wished.
And to sit here in the park, parched
and sweaty, idle on the benches, bearing witness,
one eyebrow nearly hidden in the dark, arched
as if to challenge the belief those sparks existed.