If you are indeed a fly of fire,
impossibly incandescent yet alive,
why don’t high branches, kindled, turn to flame
when you alight?
But if, instead, it’s lightning that you hold
pulsing inside yourself, impatient glow
some catalyst’s arrival will ignite,
why don’t you strike?
Perhaps it’s fire and lightning you contain
those summer nights when, set loose after rain,
you flash among the dark trees, passing by,
winged star that flies.