Sketches

I.
A music spell fills the room
that moves the will and
plays it like Krishna
whispers to his flute.
She visits me so,
star-born Urania,
now and when without
permit without calling.
Her latest face is pool-water
in the eyes and sable hair,
lips carved into a blind boy’s
bow.

II.
Where world doesn’t enter, the sky,
a darkened field, glows with junebugs
some billion flashlights—
will become brighter
than your local star if you let them.

III.
stoplight
red escaping from small apertures
in a grille covering the lamp—
half-tone dots.

IV.
sky gradient
cornflower and deep
at azimuth to it’s a girl really.
The horizon is a simple line,
collision of pink and city.
But magenta pervades clockwise
to 10:30 or so.

V.
Drawing in the dark,
I notice,
lies in the spectrum between
letting a line muse, like Klee
and pages blank from fear
of going in the wrong direction,
of drawing just a line
going nowhere.

© 2013, Amy Hart.