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Larry D. Thomas
Fireflies
On onionskin-like wings
delicate as the substance
of nothing, on summer nights
so thick they’re palpable,
they flare up the green and orange
flames of their abdomens.
In the cruelty of childhood,
I’d snatch them, crush their heads
twixt my thumb and forefinger,
and marvel at how, for a while,
at irregular intervals
even after their deaths,
they’d flare up their flames
against the night.

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