I: Lightning

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The sky shutters, flash of voyeur camera. Only: I am the one watching the black and my eyes are squinted against the drizzle, and I keep waiting for the flashes. Illumination looms and I can’t stop anticipating it: these revelations, these snapshots of secrets every so often then all at once, like stage lights on new scenes, still dripping.

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II: Fireflies

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The sky reveals secrets but what I really wish is for the secrets to step forward, reticent, and reveal themselves. I have no patience for passivity. I want tiny bodies suffused with orange bulb-glow to rise, dipping heavily, from the grasses. For them to flicker once, twice, as if haunted. I tell everyone that I am watching for the watcher but really I am waiting for the watched to reveal themselves to me. I can’t help it, and the sky isn’t clearing anytime soon.

 

 

 

 

 

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