the fireflies flicker in time with the music
as you kill the headlights and we watch the lightning
dance behind the trees in the new subdivision, "hawthorne."
i have looked for houses with seven gables, for scarlet letters,
for young good (brown) men and have found none. i haven't even
seen a custom house. the street signs show no connections to any
of hawthorne's possible interpretations.
i sigh. deeply.
but, for now, the strobes of insects can distract me.
Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's
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