Happened this week, for only about an hour.
The bolt volts into a transformer ex-
plods the top vents blackest smoke
through fried wires across the street at dusk. Winds now
miles Eastward. Power dead wet weight soaking
faint drizzle. Room dimming. I stare at Kubrick’s
monolith suspending on its long edge
in living room pitch. Framed
in this dark shape four figures reach pinnacle
the night sky stippled with stars mute moon owls hoot
One remains awake
gazing sighing smiling at the Pleiades sniffing desert breath
his face bursting nova bright, dimming his shimmering robe
sheening the three sleeping men. This luminous one
speaks with two others until the three jolt awake,
shielding flash-struck eyes until
living room lights blare the plasma slab glowing into a
Cosmos episode the universe birthing igniting from the screen.
The iridescent one
holding the spark.