by Peter Kane Dufault
Last night when the sun went down
and the light lifted—it was levered
off the last high land to the westward
through tier after tier of cirrus
and cumulus cloud,
all the way to the zenith—such
a finale of auroral cold fire
no one could speak here . . . We stood
like pillars of salt looking after it
a long while till it all faded
into grey-blue and dark-grey. Again
I wonder how we survive, how
we survive, when more than we had dreamt of
is given, for no reason, and for no reason taken away.