I’ll crack open my head
right goddamn now
and you’ll see
the lightning bugs
burst into the twilight.

My mind is full
of intermittent fire.

I’d rather gently
blow steam
in the shape
of a dead bur oak
than belch flames.

The lightning bugs will
take over the neighborhood,
twinkling like lighthouses
on distant cliffs,

or stars calling
for other stars
to drift over, to start
a constellation
that looks just like
a screaming antelope.

Oh dear
I seem to be swinging
like Mercury—a year
in a few days, back and forth.

Yet I am as in control
as a hearth can be, just
a mason jar full of grass
with holes in the lid.