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.