8-15 Black Out

Black Out

At twilight, a transformer ex-
plods. Black smoke spews upward.
Wires fry across the street.


Storm now
miles Eastward. Power dead from tree tons.
Faint drizzle. Dim light silhouettes the room.
I stare at Kubrick’s monolith on its side.
Framed


in this dark shape, four figures reach pinnacle,
night sky stippled with stars. Owls hoot
below. Three sleep.

He gazes sighs smiles at the Pleiades, sniffs desert breath.
Nova light illumes his face, robe, and three sleeping men.
He speaks with two others until the three jolt awake,
shade their flash-struck eyes until

my living room lights blare on, and the plasma slab glows
into a PBS Cosmos episode: the universe births,
ignites the screen.


The iridescent one
lights the spark.