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Last night between the willow’s eye
I watched the sunset shout, then sigh
and slip its glowing to the ground
to where the fireflies abound.

Winged Prometheans, July’s romance,
within their charge they dipped and danced,
blinking pink out of the light they held,
that in their glass-bottle bodies swelled.

And when they’d shifted warm to cool,
they flew that light up to the moon
and she in turn bled out the green
to give the gleam its silver sheen.

Now she will hold the shining fast
until the last night-hour has passed
then open armed, she’ll turn away
to push the golding of the day.

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