It’s a windows-flung-open-to-the-heavens
kind of twilight, fireflies failing to navigate
the space between my window panes
and their unlimited domain of sky,
lightly bumping into the wire screens,
trailing glowing bits across the panels
that fade in a few moments’ time.
It’s a can’t-get-cool-no-matter-what
kind of evening, breeze unable to weave
through piles of discarded yoga capris
and thick-knit short-sleeved tops
that litter the floor and bed,
leaving me lying here, sprawled out
unladylike in a sleeveless shift dress–
one with the fading fireflies who can’t find their way,
riding the breeze ’til it lands me somewhere new.