Ev­ery­thing in Sun­light I Can’t Stop See­ing

The Iowa Review - - GRAHAM BARNHART -

af­ter Bruce Weigl

I fry an egg over easy, and eat it be­tween two slices of wheat toast. Through the kitchen win­dow I watch a work­man pry­ing up the old street. Brit­tle sparks jump from the brick top when he strikes it. Or it’s the shovel tip scoured to chrome bounc­ing off the clay. I leave my sis­ter’s house, and the in­ter­sec­tion transformer is still hum­ming some­how. I’m used to the elec­tric­ity qui­et­ing in the wire when the sun scrapes its knee bloody up the porch step. I walk be­neath the or­ange flu­o­res­cent street lamps and the white flu­o­res­cent street lamps turn­ing the air around them­selves resinous with blu­ing rings like flooded drainage ditch rip­ples around dropped ear­rings. Tree branches, black in the dawn sky, re­sume their grays and browns by lunch, but the black wrought fences con­tinue lean­ing into their rust, rigid and fail­ing. —there is no war in this but me.

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