for Rafael Ibay and Kelly Spence
When the class is done there’s always a drive
and, just like they were in Illinois’ chill,
every transmission pole is an Eiffel,
heads on door glass, freeway eyes.
The lines carry so much warm charge, alive
with so much power, those underneath will
have to get clear. Instead, we keep back, fill
ourselves with clouds made of paint, a salve
so we never burn, stand, like a child
tattooed to an arm, in green pajamas,
looking at a whole planet a balloon
can be, held in orbit by string, wild
cobalt, a humming of the universe.
We thrash to local sound. We glow, full moons.