I find it hung upside down on John’s tiny back
Porch, a luminous egg sac burning through
A harsh white collar. There is no need to shut
The door because it is the middle of May and
We like the sharp smell of wild onions drifting like
Needles across the dark back yard. John
Says his garden needs rain, just enough to pepper
The leaves of the tomato plants that have started to
Turn brown. He says a 25-watt bulb will last until
Winter, the same as the luna moths stitching
Dusty threads in and out of the phosphorous light.
I know now the slow turning of a late sky
Is the only light I understand. I think of the small
White porch I have to pass through on my way
To my car. How tomatoes somehow form inside a tight
Yellow blossom. John says it’s late. The silent
Highway leads me back through moving cones of headlights.
John’s bare arm reaching up to give the bulb a single,
Quick twist.