Gaslight
       

The arc bends toward farce.
I stop the dirty word in cortex
Where it lodges: rich. Go soft
& scared in a rented cave.
Two roads diverge, left &
Right of center. Blood in the
Woods, felled timbers. Some
Fulcrum blocks a middle way.
We relearn the colors blue & orange:
Sky-screen, despot-sun. Some faces.
I want the sum of them gone,
A little air through the lucarne.
Outside, is is more or less as was.
Elsewhere, someone lights a match,
& waits for the inevitable question.

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Copyright © 2019 E. G. Cunningham All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission