Networks of knobs-and-tubes, wires insulated with rubberized fabric. Dangerous and domestic, hot and neutral wires in the same sheathing. While we sleep, currents do their lockstep-quickstep, course behind a corner wall the refrigerator leans against as it spits out cubes of frozen breath and chips of lunar teeth. Blue lights on the coffeemaker's face tell a time different from the orange numbers on the microwave. One light above the shower stall blinks open and shut and we think voyeur; the bulb above the sink doesn't blink—it's tired and has seen it all. Outside, a summer thunderstorm makes spoons and windows rattle. Lightning takes the shape of tree or filigree, never a ruled grid. Ground means reference point, return path; a safe route for wayward electricity. Or direct physical contact with the earth, as when you shed your shoes to remember what it's like to feel something like breathing come through the soil.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.