You thought you’d left your appliance
on too long, or the gin was wearing off.
Still, you felt your way down the
stairwell of vanishing spirits
to see what all the din was about,
passing from inner blackness into the
deeper blank of the inner west,
and still couldn’t see it, whizzing past
your ears, nor the clear, high-beam
eyes of the local wildlife that’d crept
down eucalypts, across dewy grass
to stop at the gaps in the fences.
The animals could see it, though:
you, turned to stone, your kids
swinging from the power-lines,
squealing with joy, and the air,
alive with evaporating sparks.