If you could piece together a radio out of odds and ends, say a cotton-reel, cardboard and glue
Sam Chatmon would play the blues all night long.
Instead, a broomstick lies on its side left by some flighty witch who didn’t want to see the inch or two
of moonlight that shimmers in our yard.
What you least expect is heat, the winter night to envelope you like a cloak as you step down into
the shrouded garden.
White light shines as if surfacing from under the ocean.