after the artwork of Emery Blagdon

Blinking lights must hang in patterns
around the singular space of a shack.
      They are there to mimic stars,
a galaxy of wellness fallen to earth.
Metal tubes bend and twist
        into planets and moons.
Tornadoes of wire wrap every beam,
every crooked nail. The floor,
        walls, and ceiling spiral with paint,
every color left over from years
of fading and weathering,
        cracking, crazing. Splinters
and sawdust quiver when
the motor starts. All the pieces
        turn and sway. Everyone
carries their sickness,
even unaware. We walk
        into the darkness of this shed
to find a cure, think of all those
who could use this miracle,
        all those we’ve ever wanted
to live forever.
Every pin spot of light
        draws out infection. Then
we walk out into the afternoon
where the sun tugs at our mended hearts,
        our eyes squinting at its power.