the Northern Lights are music
played by giants in the space
between giants
air that smells like salt, salt
that looms
as tall as winter
tall as salt
here at our little lighthouse
the roof has blown clean off
with the volume of green
the shingles rain down
the shingles float
like pack ice
like stained glass if it
crushed ships
I open my eyes to hear
no blue song but the brightness
loud through my peeled back lids
peeling backwards and backwards
til they disappear in the spaces
between pupils and all there is,
is howls and nightsong
