I dance around you
like a firefly —
caught
in the hand
of June;
made wary
by a past
that haunts
the present,
and fuels civilities.
I flail and fall
through impolitic coupling —
as alone
then
as later;
listening to the blues
or meeting your friends,
I murmur civilities.
I feel most honest
when you sleep —
your eyes closed
mine wide open,
holding my own breath
to listen to yours.
It’s those intrepid explorers
I’m wondering about —
the ones who swath
their way
through the overgrowth
through undoing incivility,
shrugging off the pounding din
staring down the dead-yellow eyes
of all those
jungle-hungry hearts.