That is Venus, rising (swiftly) over power lines
That mark its progress, as if to say there is
No hiding from it, no illusion of stillness.
It’s a spectacular answer to an unasked
Question, shining in reflection, no light
Of its own—And the epherimids that float
In the same drifting and reflected rays:
Seen, then gone, winking back into existence
With the light, following each other’s orbit.
Point of view, perhaps—Who else sees Venus
This way, just so, with hovering horizons
And a myriad mist of tiny lives in imitation?
