Friday, November 17, 2006


cars move in inches
over the bridge, the traffic lights
blacked out,
swing violently from wires
as wet leaves stir in whirls
at the eyes of intersections
people are moving
toward their homes
in the dark and
without order

puddles froth in the wind
with white foam rising
in fish-skin moonshine.
the football field by my house
becomes a chopping lake
of mud and rain

the city is apocalyptic in the dark:
with no electric whirr and hum,
twigs snap crisply in clean air,
candle-light glows warm from windows
and no one draws their curtains in the dark

by midnight the animals leak
from blown-bare trees and roiled creeks
I see amber flashing eyes and
breath that lifts in plumes
from out the underbrush
soft feet pad on needles and black detritus
as the wolves close in
and the tree roots wrap around,
crawling closer to your living-room
in the blackout


At 3:00 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I love this poem! This one does NOT make me squirm (unlike a few of the others, you know the ones)I Remember the blackout and it's total weirdness. I wonder how many times I walked into rooms and flicked at the light switch by habit. How we city slickers have become accustomed to our comforts eh?


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