A shell of light held our faces together,
a Caravaggio. Then the battery,
AA, the bright one, the safe investment,
began to die. An amber varnish
darkened the ancient canvas.
It wasn’t the kind of battery
you could rest overnight, like a good horse,
and harness again at dawn.
It hadn’t nine lives, like a mouser.
It brought nothing winged
back from the rough November marsh
to drop at your boot.
You couldn’t praise it or punish it.
Still you wanted everything
the battery owed you.
You quickened as I slowed. You rose
as I sank, until finally I turned
to the dark window, where among
the summer birches flickered
the child-beckoning fireflies.