Member Poem

To the lighthouse

construction in the swamp
means land no longer full of

black gators

or giant primordial children

heard through laps and gasps of a wave
(had to be kept close at all times)—

Refuge by light isn’t dust-shrouded

refuge is a supply cart,
ride it downward.

Not knowing where it leads,

(to a gate in a tunnel, to a well)—

whoever finds three soft heads bob
with no face toward air,

I wouldn’t call them a winner.

Now tourists are glad they didn’t

and we ignore these feelings like a tug of ankle.

Watch furniture move without batting a heartbeat,

light is a glimpse of disembodied hands fanning from
behind closed tower door.

How long this light keeps us happy before we use it up?
The holes will let u s know.