Goose-grey paper, waterlogged with lamentations,
gay nineties font that runs, here and there,
in mini-atlas, falling by stages from page
to page that a bug might use,
to flee by, or undo its loss.
Trumpet & Drum; an averted wreck;
the frond-busked stop sign. Costruire la citta,
these days and nights. The windows
blue as the nightlife dies, lingerie shown
freely in stairwells, much verging on pastel
and quietly, oddly, much flora guiltily bisected.
Wait and watch, watch and see, there’s none
will judge the afterlife of a firefly.