Battling here-or-there-fatigue
in brilliant yellow darkness.
The tiniest sounds of fracture —
all eighths disappear from the Inch River.
Tomorrow the lights go out, the bone
xylophone comes into its own.
Albeit traumatized,
we’ll stroke the thing that hides
from the mouths of electrical eels,
place our ears closer to clouds.
Echo, for instance, the sound of water
fleeing
down stairs of grass.
The lightning machine needs oiling.
