Hot Rain

Lightning bug summers exploding stars from our baseball bats.
Lining the porch steps with mason jar prisons like forever homes in hot rain 1994 with glass museums of over exposed yellows and tired greens.
Fireflies remember--outback by the dumpster, picking up secrets for nighttime listeners.
July thunder thinks through something bigger than itself,
and it’s wetter than I remember.
Walking old summers, before the infinite suicides of being loved on the inside
/before/
I wanted to run into something dark and permanent and breathless.
Some endless green like Annihilation, shimmering, and a song soft enough to break and remediate.