I find it hung upside down on John’s tiny back Porch, a luminous egg sac burning through A harsh white collar. There is no need to shut The door because it is the middle of May and We like the sharp smell of wild onions drifting like Needles across the dark back yard. John Says his garden needs rain, just enough to pepper The leaves of the tomato plants that have started to Turn brown. He says a 25-watt bulb will last until Winter, the same as the luna moths stitching Dusty threads in and out of the phosphorous light. I know now the slow turning of a late sky Is the only light I understand. I think of the small White porch I have to pass through on my way To my car. How tomatoes somehow form inside a tight Yellow blossom. John says it’s late. The silent Highway leads me back through moving cones of headlights. John’s bare arm reaching up to give the bulb a single, Quick twist.