Emptied of light
draws upon its own resources
yet soothing somehow, reassuring
shaped so long ago
perhaps in dream
or nightmare, meanings lost or changed now,
put to other uses.
They have the character
of poems from another tongue
trying out our language.
But it's the lightness
the ease, that's unexpected,
as if the socket, like an empty picture house
and by some kind of back-projection
still tries to entertain
to keep the balls in play.
We never closed it seems to say
all strays are welcome to the play.
It's sufficiently diverting
to keep my fears at bay.
And so I watch as through a soldier's night-sight
it's just the drape across my face that stains the whole world green;
that the sky
its clouds like shadows of itself,
the hills that split apart as easily as melting icebergs;
the sun, distinctive in its yellowness,
too bright to hold in focus
inching ever nearer;
and my slow drift to blindness
or an unimaginable light:
that none of this amounts to threat or menace.
Indeed, there is a rainbow
hovering above the sun
behind green falling snow.
No suspicion of the pain I was expecting
but there was pain awhile ago.
Long and thin and for a moment only
aiming at the brain but stopping short.
The main thing is, of course:
it's going well,
I know it from the chat
horses boyfriends sex and curly kale for breakfast
I hear it just above the sound of water
a fierce tide running
swirl and slap of surf and sea and echoing
within the cave that, sighted once...
is sighted once again.
My sojourn world of logic
torn away the eyes
flooded now with light out of kilter with each other
and with the world as I have long supposed it:
face and features oddly angled
force and fabric
at odds with one another.
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