Sunday, April 29, 2007



There is that chalky, abrasive, granular sound
As you scrape it in. Those old ceramic sockets
Say it best.
If hanging, you dare not let go too soon
But twist into the thread. Pause and hold.
Wiggle, palm ready to catch.

If upright, the tentative factor yet remains.
How can you be sure? So, fingers a canopy
If the first turn misses, you are there.
Bless God, you are there for the bulb.
And not the other way around, until
Click. Death.
It lives for you, on fire.

And for all of that, you look away
To see only other things, clearer.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007

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