The simple kind that comes through a window, Tom Edison
still doing his power naps to reproduce it,
a hobby the Dead are heir to, certain special Dead
who invented the modern world.
What’s so modern about it? asks the giant elm,
over a 100 years old, still moving sap
and regurgitated sunlight in spite of bite-ridden leaves,
plus its bad rep for disease, huge fragile branches
that fall to the street in July.
Thanks a lot, Wind. That’s the tree complaining.
Light = Rescue, World Peace, Forgiveness, the Flattening
of the Covid curve.
Sure, Mr. Edison. Maybe if disguised as
chocolate for all, happiness at least 8 hours a day,
ubiquitous oxygen even at altitudes where
normally it’s replaced with
this shrug: you’ll get used to it up here, breathe deeper.
Just set your oven lower or higher, can’t
That window again, genius light bestows best if you
sit right beside it in a so-so mood as if
you can forget the pandemic.
Maybe I just need a good nap.
The Dead cherish this part: if you lie down,
you stop and go somewhere at the same time!
Sleep! A nap is clarity gone ambidextrous.
So much never noticed in life until curious moments
of now drop in.
Genius light running through them.