frequent flickering
by Francine DuBois

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 Version
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