Barbara F. Lefcowitz

Silver Linings by Barbara Lefcowitz

Silver linings have broken away from their clouds.
I’m not sure when this separation began,
can only note how the linings twist and float,
wrap around hailstones, debris tossed
from rooftops; dangle dangerously from wires.
Slivers of glare cling to eyes and hair.

Experts cannot explain why
though they warn that the linings
can conceal the pores in fine chocolates
through which someone might pour
arsenic, belladonna; set young stars on fire.

Skeptics claim they may not, after all,
be the linings of clouds but tin-foil bands
from old cigarette packs, thin silver
suitable for slim rings, soft paper clips.

But most people need to cast blame on
something particular: the jet stream,
al Qaeda, sins of the Right, the Left,
Mata Hari, the Hittites, the Internet.
And lament how the disappearance of darkness
makes it impossible to recognize light.

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