A small glance up the stairs
just after waking, the sensation
of snow in August. The light
left over from winter, takes months
to reach our retinae, traveling
across pockmarked bodies and cross-stitched skies,
to be that golden beam
on the floor beneath our bed, which looks
almost like the sun, if you keep your eyes
half-shut and roll over. From the point
of view of a body, all light
is the same, only the orientation changes.
In the morning, I woke to find
the sky still dark, and I drew the curtains shut
to keep this one beam
separate, special, holed up
in the back of our pockets, and touching
every part of our bodies where we'd been.
No comments:
Post a Comment