by Dean McHugh

The TV died—
Dazed, alert to our fish-eyed gaze
And suddenly self-conscious
Whipping shut the reflective curtain
In a violated and opaque display.
          We lit our candles around our table,
The matches reared their blazed helmets
Like an archaeologist’s troupe
Who with brimmed senses
Dig toward a lost underworld.
        Our kitchenware flirted in morse glints
Oracular, bringing to light
The play of wind and motion.
And staring out the window,
We saw astrology was possible.