The party lines have died, that flickered like thieves,
trees come out in time like teeth, homes get eaten,
yards sublimate to weed, but these outlast the Parthenon,
the hanging looms that thread through all the driveways
still vibrate black and taut, like strings for birds to pluck
when they're not singing, their barrels of electric charge up high,
bolts swaddled down in tar, to glow the hearths and cool
the roofs, bring multi-colored lamps across the neighborhoods
through strings as thin as jumpropes, that hold the homes like puppets
and we the audience can never see, although they block the sky
from here to China, as if they are the filaments that bind the cosmos,
that yarn that holds the moving light in place, that keeps it safe
to leap from islands of itself, to the self that's somewhere else,
ecstatic to discover that there is no space or time, just like they thought.
