Lee Ann Roripaugh

I like the elements of color and light throughout these. And especially the insomnial “Sleepless Graffiti” (#2 below) and “Ten Nights’ Dreams.”

Way past closing time, and you want to walk in the dark with disheveled hair, moonlight juke-boxing its twangy lobotomy through your head. Stroll through the empty small-town downtown — where traffic lights blink their metronomical yellow. Past the historic courthouse. Past the Elk’s Club. Past Green Acres Hair Shack and down by the Pump-n-Stuff, where wild turkeys congregate at night, carousing around the gasoline islands until sunrise and swilling rain straight from the sky.

Maybe you’ll drunk-dial the fog and dance in its mist: tango, fandango, bolero. Vaporous swirl and dip.

Maybe you’ll steal a boat, ride it downriver — all the way to the confluence; all the way to the ocean — until you’re swallowed up by something vast enough to randomly signify as joy.

And yes, helpless, this torque in the dark, because you’re nothing but pinball ricochet, reckless electricity — sizzling the grillwork and pooling into the lightbulb on a nightstand where someone you love but haven’t ever met turns the pages of a book into the early morning.

Can’t you hear the soft hum of golden lumens burning away the night?