After the election

Switch the phones to 100-year mode and
call the children in. The sun sets behind the
pylons and we crack the sparks at large in
our sinuses, in the crannies of our joints.
What if all the ruru flew here, all at once?
100 hunters, each a solo traveller, but for
this night, a flock. Two bone-sets, light and
heavy, hum together. The children overlook
our failings, our slack hands that have never
taken flight. One night-bird moment in which
to dream a new centenary for this power.