Sixty degrees on solstice day.
An incubator.

If we go to the beach we can find all the bones of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow
and throw them in the lake.
We can dip our heads in the cold water
to wash away these nasty thoughts
growing on our brains like bacteria in the warm weather,
send them into the lake with the bones and the souls of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow.

The supercharged atmosphere
zaps my fingers when I open the car door.
Static electricity.

If I collect all that ecstatic magic
I'll let you hold it in your hands
in a jar
and we can watch it dance.
A hundred million fireflies
that should have died on the lips of
December.