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R E T U R N I N G H O M E L AT E S U N D AY N I G H T

D A N I E L A N D E R S O N

Pale bulb. High sun. At Friday noonThe porch lamp seemed a minor waste,But in the intervening daysA darkness has replacedMy bright backyard. The weed-cracked driveAdvances into nothingness.It’s queer, perhaps too simple, how,Returning home on Sunday night,That light burns like a stroke of genius now,Elucidating moths, a wicker chair,The gate that bears a jaw of shadowed fangs,And a spider’s needlework in whichThe small, shriveled skeletons of fliesDecay. Like props abandoned from a play,Two unread papers languish in the grass.

Gravel. Latch. Hinge and lock. Each noiseGrows amplified. And suddenly it seemsNot just a weekend but a decade lost.There is the flavor of frost, a cloud-scrubbed moon,The rush of something dreadful yet to come,Not sleet nor snowflake on the mounting wind,But soon.