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.