By: John Wells 

From the car’s window we look
toward a quietude of lightning
in the faraway, lightening
once in a while,
the way fireworks
illuminate our decline
into the whatever
awaiting—

the radio full of familiarity,
soft and slow,
twilight alighted
by sunset’s nothing, by
the glow of another sweetened
sky: clouds luminescent for the time
it takes to notice,
to look away—

to look back
and understand night
as a fire burning out,
as an evening dissolving
like smoke.