What I remember most of all

By | 1 November 2019

Like a rolling siren, dead sounds
without a step doppler away. We flip
switches to tell each other how we hurt.
Yesterday, I flipped a live switch and heard
the indicator light pop—I didn’t have
the right bulbs—no one ever told me
there’s a right and wrong way to light bulbs
how a proper bulb can sing for months, a background
deluge. Halogen shatters within a surge.
The hurt flew out of me today
and broke the ceiling fan, hung off a blade
until it bowed to the hardwood ground.

My job is to feel something—sugared knife,
Dead Sea net ablaze with thread. Catch nothing.

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