Late Light Day Dark
In the equinoctial bargain
between dark and light late
in the day she pauses
and, sitting on him,
listens to the storm
like a team of hooves
clatter the louvers.
A smoke. A static
bolt splits the coming
dark and strikes the elm,
bisects the trunk
and arcs the sorry half
over the shingled roof
like a slender orange fish
describing a flaming frown
high above her thought
of a merciless blue dawn
until it sticks, mouth first
in the backyard.
What can be turned off
has been turned off
for the sake of smolder
for the sake of photons
aspiring to the slanting of space
but still throughout the night
the idle appliances continue
without light of confirmation
to suck their phantom load.
