by Lorrie Ness A bare bulb spraysthe root cellar’s bulging walls,so infernally bright that I squintagainst its glare, then squint againat its dimness. Where does the light go,in the space of eight-foot square?It’s the math mama used to picklesummer into jars. Three monthscondensed to quarts.This is the only placewhere time is measured in volume,where months… Continue reading