Lights

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.