do you want to lose yourself?

For how many summers, 

have you not spoken of your search 

for night sorcery? I know you, and that you

seek magic, and that you 

would stay out all night, and that you

are so interested in the world that you

could name all of these flowers by touch alone.

Your heart tissues are fashioned 

by the first orienteer. 

There’s an aisle of sandstone, to the sea,

and a march of fireflies: trapped in

successive little lanterns, 

buzzing in the dark. Phosphenes

with wings. Confused light 

wearying for position and statement

and you, lured by the path,

restless for your own displacement

with french braids and astray spells in your hair.

Voulez-vous vraiment vous perdre?

© Mollie Mardel