Beckoned by silence,
he slips unnoticed

into the shadow
of nowhere,
	
one of those places
known to exist,

but questioned by reality,
questioned by 

a morose and sordid
understanding 

of witchery, the occult
and other known 

findings of 
the other side.

Slip silently
into knowing 

what invisibility
tells us, sings 

to us softly:
we know, we know,

regardless of the names
stolen from

the shadows of trees,
from invisible mountains.

Call them fireflies 
or lightning bugs,
we were spending the summer
in Central Ohio
and she had never been
east of the Rockies.

That first night we sat outside 
the cabin on the lawn
and a world of wonder
awakened for her.
She had no idea such
a magical real life light show
could really exist
as lights tumbled frantically, 
lazily around us.

I later told her
how as kids
we caught them
and put them in jars,
would paste them on our fingers
as glowing rings.

Tales from the sublime 
to the barbaric.