Sparklers

Beyond the limits of all my naive hopes. Inky, ice-filled northern air. Branches of greater darkness split through the night. Shards of imaginary light play at the borders of invisibility, like sparklers in the hands of the dead. I wiped the table with a wet cloth. I could have done a better job. I could have waited until the water was hot. I could have shifted everything off the table and wiped it thoroughly. Instead I wiped in broad, unsystematic strokes, leaving some areas damp and the other dusty and dry. This is the scene that I contemplate, that leads me into the forest, into the very depths of the night – though it is only mid-afternoon. I can barely stand. I have lost my bearings completely. The branches of darkness twist my head about. There is no need to reach into my pocket for matches. Bright specks of painful light erupt from a thin bit of wire at the end of my incalculably distant hand.