Enero, 30

Consider, as someone does,
how the turning of the switch
on the lamp opens a gate
and lets bits of excitement
from outside in, a nudging
of electrons from the pole
at the end of the driveway,
and beyond, from the miles
of cable that lead across
town, down to the riverbank
where bilges of crudely cast
electrons made exciting,
lanes of negative ions
wait in evening traffic, stuck
until you get home. That ball,
the silver one on your desk,
pulled back to a taut distance
and let flung till it patters
the other side. All our hate
pent up. These are the sun’s rays
coming through oil or gas,
the twisting combine of wind
or water or whatever
other imagination
some engineer can muster
to instigate our loathing,
cap our fear, unleash the black
light that burns inside, waiting
for someone who’ll use anger
to come home and flip the switch.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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