Like So Many Sparks

  by Susan Stevens


From my bed in the darkened
room I see a red dot
and a white dot of light.
A flip of the switch
usually does it, but some things
can't be turned off.
That red dot warns that sparks
and smoke go hand in hand.  Yet
it and the light that seeps 
from the door's peephole
can mean only one thing:
there is no true ebony.
Think of it:

neon, headlights, clocks' dials,
street lamps, fireflies, stars,
moon, false dawn—
some things can't be turned off.
Even my mind dreams furiously illuminated.

Now, I'm trying hard to think of a time
when I wasn't electrified by some
scintillating tutor and his red-
hot lectures.  Some things you don't
want to turn off.  Like the banter
that flashes a splendid arc
of language-cum-longing, like
the glint off nickel keys
in a concert hall.

There was a reflection of us, each
in the other, but saying what happened
would be like explaining how the moon
looks larger, more lambent,
on the horizon.

A man needs advice in a newspaper
column:  His concern is that when
he is in a dark room and starts 
to cough, sparks fly from his mouth.
Between the sparks and the dark
is another thing.  Spend the rest
of your nights trying to guess it.