My glasses fog in humid summer.
Through them every beacon warns of rocks,
shallows, imminent wreckage. Before

I can wipe them, fireflies form holograms
of constellations, luciferase scattered
like overzealous Christmas bulbs.

I clear my lenses, light a cigarette, &
insects swarm. They woo the burning tip,
surround me, lustful teens in packs

at dances. God, they have my attention –
embers of fireworks falling. They rage,
rage against the dying of July.