Blog Post / Fall 2016 / Issues / Volume 47

1998, Twilight–David Tuvell

October, but no static, staccato, crinkle, crescendo.
Tulips have long since chimed;
an evergreen won’t lose its leaf.

I watch the sun deflate with a hiss into the pond,
sending ripples under green algae like the “S” vibration
of a plucked guitar string—or waves on the skin of a beat drum

(or maybe an electron’s three-dimensional wave,
skip, skip, skipping—up through vertebrae and into the right synapse,
[the light turning violet awhile

before la petite mort—or poor reception])—
and the end, not of day, but of a day.
Steam rises casually above blackened pond.

I look up at the sky, with its light-polluted stars,
and miles of warm, flat air pressure:
and night shines like a computer monitor.

I slowly begin to hear its buzz,
like water crawling out of my ear:
sitting up gradually, pushing my head out of the water—

audience to monotone coughing by the drain
as it absently sucks water from a tub
curtained by an arm dripping any given fluid over the side.

But nothing will feel like watching the sun set during this autumn.
Nothing will change currency—megahertz of silicon, wattage of towers.
Nothing will interfere with tonight’s live satellite transmission.

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