No surprise here: darkness has mass, has light
on its back foot. We are made of the obvious
observations every child already imagined.
The universe is a closet door left slightly
ajar; the space beneath the bed breeds
galaxies. Light is heat conjured at the edge
of nothing, a necessary but conjectured
condition bounded by shadow. Consider
the terrible gap between intentions
and the multifarious realities that explode
from each, the meant and the unmeant
leapfrogging in directionless abandon.
We impose order to find a place
to stand, the cave mouth hanging agape,
its spark of light silhouetting us
against the absolute expanse of night.
From the collection Winter Garden