The language of a light bulb shares a kilowatt’s syntax,
practices ceiling diction. You could drink out of one,
if brighten-shatter. Nothing lives in a photon except
insect wings that permeate a Phillips-® scepter.
Translating a flicker, as simple as renaming
yourself halogen. Juice is cranberry or volt
worth a flare in the hands of a highway majorette.
Your neck a desk lamp, a compliment
for contortionist, the equivalent thirsty
filament. In my talk with Susan and Jaydn,
whose screens fluoresced, I claimed the bulb’s
taken after vertebrates, its makeover helical,
not ovate. A sparkler burn and record-player
shock made me Top-40 averse. Gigabytes
are beautiful but can’t replicate unison
bassoons in the second movement of
Sibelius No. 2, their sound like spelunking
with stuffed peppers for shoes.
When a switch is depicted,
it’s a treatise on a fingertip.
Welter is not warrantee.
I mourn better well-lit.
Jon Riccio teaches creative writing at the University of West Alabama. His collection, Agoreography, was recently published by 3: A Taos Press.