The cactuses dripping with writhing electric
Colored lights, some twinkling, some shifting
Hues, some snaking down corded icicles,
Were all set off and somehow humbled
By the overhead full moon. It appeared
In all the photos, a pale and blurry face
High over all the sharper, smaller lights,
Like some Victorian seance faked photo
Of a ghost no one had noticed in the room.
Wilderness is that far off now, although
All the actual exemplars of ghosts were
The wordy souls shadowing the brilliance
Of their artifice down below. Daughter felt,
She told me, inexplicably heartbroken
One moment among the lights alone.
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