[Matt Q]

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Filaments [R1]


The world’s longest-lasting lightbulb was installed in 1901
and still lights up the fire department in Livermore, California.
Livermore, scholars say, was a poem Poe discarded, a remaking
of the Prometheus myth, in which it’s a raven that pecks out
the god of fire’s liver. In 1924 a cartel curtailed the lifespan
of the lightbulb, inventing built-in obsolescence. Yesterday
my bedroom's long-life bulb began to fade and flicker. Unscrewing it,
I dropped it. Specialised glass smashed into a thousand slivers,
my own life long enough to pick up each one and hardly miss
the time. A tiny beak of glass slid in beneath my fingernail,
drawing blood. This morning I was awoken by your voice.
You said my name. Just once. Your tone, the tone of one
who sought to wake me. The ending of a poem is a place
of gathering together, a knitting of frayed threads to forge
a nest: How long a light endures. How bright its shining
incandescence. The flickering, the going out. The shattering
and the clearing up. The finding of black feathers in the morning.


L6 cut "bedroom's" before "long-life bulb"
L12 "the tone of the one" -> "the tone of one" (typo)
L14 "a knotting of frayed threads to shape a nest" replaces "a ravelling of themes".
L14 "knotting"->"knitting", "shape" -> "forge"




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Filaments

The world’s longest-lasting lightbulb was installed in 1901
and still lights up the fire department in Livermore, California.
Livermore, scholars say, was a poem Poe discarded, a remaking
of the Prometheus myth, in which it’s a raven that pecks out
the god of fire’s liver. In 1924, a cartel curtailed the lifespan
of the lightbulb, inventing built-in obsolescence. Yesterday
my bedroom's long-life bulb began to fade and flicker. Unscrewing it,
I dropped it. Specialised glass smashed into a thousand slivers,
my life long enough to pick up each one and hardly miss
the time. A tiny beak of glass slid in beneath my fingernail,
drawing blood. This morning I was awoken by your voice.
You said my name. Just once. Your tone, the tone of the one
who sought to wake me. The ending of a poem is a place
of gathering together, a ravelling of themes: How long a light
endures. How bright its shining incandescence. The flickering,
the going out. The shattering and the clearing up.
The finding of black feathers in the morning.