ISSUE: Fall 2014
The day moon the
spirit of the morning
more than the dim gray
sun on the other
side of the sky the
other color ghost
cold color of snow
on the horizontal
Summit Street ten degrees
his truck’s been parked
at the curb all morning
next to the guard
railing around the
dugout pit and pipes
the neighborhood in
darkness then in light
depending on his need
to work or power up
and heat our homes
he goes back and forth
from cab coffee and
his sheaf of schematics
to the high side of
the hole with a torch
he’s a ghost floating
in the weird snow light
he’s tugging his
heavy gloves snaps
his head again
how lonely the
universe feels and
flips his eye-shield down
to go to one knee
flicking on the torch
that burns a carburized
flame no bigger
than a marble at
more than half the heat
of the surface of the sun—
