A scooped pot of
here and there blooming among the porch,
revealing a wicker rocking chair
and a tendril-laced swing
beneath which sits a pail of
gardening tools, their blades caked with
while the rest of the house is
subsumed by somnolent shadow
and the sharp metal edges gleam white.
Lightning flashing crookedly among the
lurking lupine clouds,
dividing with its electric hot-wire fence
the Black Angus hills from the
Headlights sketching the peripheries
of stark, monochrome fields,
parting night with frenzied white strokes of
flitting insects like scattering dust
as it falls off the powdery phosphorescence
with the white-knuckled pressure
of hastened renditions.
invading from behind,
exploding in the cab as a
of blinding light;
as they tailgate too closely
along this isolated back-country road.
And now the
the lunar larva
hung high within the
black bower of night,
feeding on light
from within its
so it may one day crack full and
with newfound radiance.