electricity {a poem}

In this spot by the man-made
stream gashed into the ground

In this spot by the banks of the
expressway where cars flow by

In this spot by the power station,
electricity sings hums buzzes trills:
is it the most alive thing here?

The air near dances with the noise
coming out of those thick black cords
wires running overhead
slicing through the trees—incisions of division in the sky.

The air near dances with
electricity sprinting away from this spot,
wires carrying the ability to
read in bed, to
cook a pot roast, to watch the evening news, to
run the dishwasher, to
iron out the wrinkles

to make a life in the darkness.