the heel press

we grasped burnt out light bulbs in shaking left hands
gently cradling the glass globes with bloodless fingers
In short orbits we slowly shake the milky orbs rattling
broken filaments against white glass watching them
 scratch their jagged paths with broken leisure
as they circle like minute spaceships in a limited orbit

with expired light gleaned out of trashcans and dumpsters from the
cities we have traveled in our walks
gathered with tenderness and stored in boxes and bags packed with foam and cloth for safety
Stored in basements and stairwells, under benches, tables and beds
waiting for moments of renewed purpose and light to be displayed in momentary
gleaming redemption of a flash burnt death.

grasping our gathered incandescent noise makers as a potter collapses an inferior pot on the wheel
firmly yet with care grimly displaying a tenacity of spirit and mind
to work out a message of redemption in timely measured movements
but we carried no clay pots and no torches only powerless receptacles
worn out from time, use, wear, entropy, heedless words and bad aim.

Resurrected now in long lines we stand in fields, in valleys,  in oceans, in rivers, in streets,
in highways,  in towns, in cities, in light, in dark while the sound of our rhythmic movement
echoes off the faces of mountains and the facades of buildings, from the tops of skyscrapers and the
bottom of the sky waiting for our moment of renewed purpose and light