A window floats above us, bottom half cut off by grass.

 

Frank’s showing me the way to hold 

a mower blade against a grinding wheel.

 

A stream of fireflies shoots two feet and dies.

The noise is swordplay or my cousin working on a car,

 

continuing a second after Frank has stopped.

Lives are sparks, he murmurs,

 

words that hang like bits of ash.

We trudge upstairs to finish cutting grass

 

and step into the sun, matches on our tongues.