Jack Butler

Lights Out

        I’m sitting up late in May in Arkansas.
        A spider prowls the floor. 

        I’m closing in on what I’m hunting for,
        a phrase as sweet as music, hard as law. 

        The spider hunts in my synthetic day.
        His shadow jigs three times his size,

        confusion of blotted W’s.
        I cannot think of what I meant to say.

(photo by Kathie George)