Overhead
  by Donald Levering

Wandering off from my mother,
I found myself in the lighting department
of the hardware store, staring
at a flock of whirring ceiling fans,
their blades turning slowly, brass flashing.
Beneath them my head tilted back,
neck straining, taking in
the lazy wheeling of blades...

Walking the long tunnel of a culvert,
a burst of light from above,
as if I’d just walked under a grate
draining the road overhead.
After passing through this shower of light,
I turn back -- there is no grate,
no light flooding from above,
just the monocular light at the end.

Fixed on the winking blades,
the ceiling opened up to me
with a cast of celestial beings
all light and brass and beneficence
dispensing their holy breezes
over each bathtub and sink
bathing every screw and bolt with blessings...

Walking the dog, the shooting star
of a dying satellite, close and low
over my head, in a long
coruscating arc.
Perhaps five seconds it wobbled
through the visible sky, sparking,
needling my scalp of routine.

When mother found me, she tried
to shake me out of my trance.
But I knew I’d seen something
I could never tell her
as she shook me so hard in her panic
I bit my tongue
and all the magnificent celestials
melted into the taste of blood.

after “The Physical Limits of Glass” by Margaret Kingery