Edison's Song

There is something bewitched

in the flick of a light switch.

Fingers feeling towards illumination,

and the way we'd clap, like trying

to catch fireflies, burst them to brightness

with a squish. This flicker of life

encased behind plastic and glass,

trapped, dying, a high-pitched knell

that squeals itself white:

the spins, the dims fought off again,

this every-night sacrifice

so we can see color in the dark.