The Offing
I
The smoke haze so
heavy, the offing invisible
in all that grey and
bitter orange, the heat like a thick coat
in May. Today the sky’s
pale blue, the coat a capet
draped loosely
across thickets of greenery, everything spangles.
The app on your
phone is not raising alerts but reminders,
refreshing the same
blue sky
An orange in a bowl
on the bench a mnemonic for
how fire can change firmament, or a jar of milk in the fridge
The offing visible
in its lim.
II
The transformer
explodes—sparks for lightning,
the house goes dark
and the smell of electricity licks
particulate air. A
dirt strike in a suburban
street, the bitumen
releasing its intensity like an orange
moggie on heat.
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