like missouri’s fireflies

by blake ellington larson

my warm hands are

wrought with black tar
and sweet sweat

there is an infinite stair case
in the basement
where the fortune tellers
have been seeping
through the walls

all the envelopes
in the house
are empty and waiting

even my nightmares
have begun to glow

their faded-paper-yellows
and hickory-hash-blacks