Celeste Gainey

A primitive contraption, one of hundreds
hanging from scaffolding high above

the football-length sound stage,
crafted to clone the ambient light of sky

but really, only a round, shallow pan
painted white on the inside, Mole

Richardson red on the outside.
Its 2k or 5k lamp screwed into a socket

attached to the rim, hot rays bouncing
off its milky circumference and falling,

filling a long silken sock extending down,
diffusing onto every surface, into every shadow.

In this pretend universe we work hard
to create the perfect weather:

a knock-out summer day right now
but soon a darkening—

then rain;
cue the wind machines—Harvey Keitel.