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.