Lights

Mark Irwin

swimming the earth at dusk and prickling the distance

of the near town. In the jigsaw puzzle of the falls I could

feel a fine mist. Driving I think of it now -- snapping those

last pieces in -- and how history makes things small. The Apollo

mission and moonwalk reduced to a few stock phrases. Finally

everything just seems made of words, but some call out to you.

Bees prowling the lobelia's sapphire falls, or that boy's arc of golden

piss. I once watched his unborn head crown and saw the prunish

face scream, reddening with seconds of air. The slick hair

smelled of roses still arriving, then his parents looked deeply

into each other's mouth for nights, days, years closing around

the swing set, bicycles and cars, the pots and pans in the kitchen,

the chipped china, glasses, the hanging spoons, and the way

the jam jars continue to gather that house's mansioning glow.