where the cicada crawl the grass and where
the remnant sounds they scratch
are something to be kept preserved
and un-shouted, and yet
must last the summer’s eerie evening air—
*this rigorous and grandiose
stupidity
that has educated the spirit,*
which is Nietzsche’s idea, if not his words…
for far too much of the world’s illusions
are now confused by ancient hay,
by corn stalks blown too dry to form a seed.
The mystery must be what lightning bugs
must do each day when hidden in
the earth, so they can make
the grass come back to life. Just as
their photoluminescence
can be another site for the release
of heat, as when the lightning lights
the summer sky
and brings no rain, nor a god power, one
who can hurl electrons
from cloud to ground far
too fast for us to dodge
much less to see. Even his breath has ceased.