i sneaked into cirrus smoke, heard a litany
of jack-o-lantern flame and firefly
bodies. they were strung from
the sky's moonlit ceiling, a royal
blue backdrop dotted white. if
those bugs had bones, little spindles
made of glow, i would swallow
them, carry each crack
in my chest: there are reasons
night is made for haunting. black
streaked clouds, ghost-lit, pass each star, all
made of candled grins and lightning
bug prayers.