A fantastical chandelier of rings, lamps, and blown glass, arranged concentrically around a hooded lamp in the center. The concept is a pseudo-scientific combination of a gyroscope and an “orrery”, a mechanical model of the planetary bodies, used to represent their relative positions and motions. Our twist is that the "planets" are Edison antique style bulbs and blown glass balls. There is also a Death Star made from darkened steel for good measure.
Oil-slick, slack shocks, ancient engine
smoking like a burning tire,
Augustus' old truck yaws and slews,
its leaf-springs limp these centuries
suspending apples, somehow pulls
the last hill past the bridge at Isle
La Motte. I hear the iron arches
groaning. Why not? Whole orchards
rattling, empty racks behind us,
emptied into grain sacks, piled
behind us—home ahead, we broach
the mile-long causeway cross from Grande Isle
back.
A blue heron's motionless
in marsh grass to my right, and pole
and icepack at my left—one line,
two lanes, a roostertail of blue
exhaust, we part the cooling waters
of Champlain.
The moon's a pool
of mercury. It's zero. Ice soon.
Steaming like a teacup, losing
heat, the lake is tossing clouds up
all around the truck; and tucked
so in its fragile ribcage creel,
the cold heart thump accordions
to keep alive, and fills, as apples
interrupt this landscape's black-
on-grey like heartbeats full of blood,
strung beads, a life of little suns
gone rolling down the press and sump
of memory and changing form
as thump , horizon groans and ladles
light, and the real sun comes up,
sudden, weightless, warm.
"Apples on Champlain"
--Richard Kenney