Poetry

It was the frontal assault
of brutal summer.
I waited for the rain
to come and fall on my neck.

There was no grief
between the aches.

In starlight, flitting
around in bushes,
fireflies,
you take me in twilight.

The vernacular nirvana
begins, till my moons squeeze.

It was not a stabbing
wound, to be picked up
by a poem in distress. Light
on light will speak

of femineity in dark.