The wick hisses
in a flat pool of wax
and the drape is drawn
above. The summit
blues buckle
under this great taking.
All is pitch-dark as soil
save heroes and horses,
dotted, glowing.
At the ridge’s
foot, men in jars
of electric lights
wind down over
TV dinners
with dry canoes in their yard.
May wire cutters give them
no choice but to invent
astronavigation.
Ruby Spencer is a third-year Creative Writing major from Charlottesville, VA. She loves experimenting with OuLiPo constraints and writing sonnets, personal essays, and folk songs. She is largely inspired by nature, especially the mountains and creeks in Virginia.
