Nothing Is Moving

Nothing Is Moving

Beaded curtain of fireflies,
hedges lighting up at their edges,

spray of sparks from a mirrorball’s
slow rotation. Nothing is moving,

I could say. But, God, that is so
inaccurate. No turning shrubs,

sure, and the road masters
corpse pose, plays dead

so well, and the darkness
steadies itself against our

planet, as a teacher, dizzy in
the heat at the end of the

school year, might put her hand
against the globe on her desk.

All revolves, you have introduced
yourself to space, a thing not

there, you keep trying to eat
your blind spots, adorn yourself

with cataract sequins, leopard-
proud. Everything promises

to dissolve, fireflies to you
mean summer, mean youth,

but this firefly on your arm,
flickering, you will never see

again after this second, the
long-slumbering lightning bugs

of last summer have given
the dirt the secret to making light.