if we are not awakened by light,

we are by wilt;

knowing even living things

loose their living to the wind,

feeling cusp of shifting ground,

suddenly the planet tilt.

you were worried by the car,

its noisy power steering

broken and leaking spots

on the ever-curved ground.

i missed fireflies.

the signal flares in the grass

whispered "God is light"

or something else.

did they lie?

where we've been,

we don't need cars, or

halogens, driving to see

hands-in-pockets billboards

offer odd transubstantiation,

new wine cupbearers

lying without consciousness.

awakened leaves tell the truth

when they die to tree

and live to air; we are

obsessed with our own impermanence,

clinging to tense.

fading fake colors

in the suns of our imitations.