Still, the surprise that light
can take the shape of a whole city
behind fingers of clouds
unfurling. Somewhere, a fist curls,
uncurls familiarly. A beam finds
a neck in periphery,
bowing. Eyeless, the glasses
on the nightstand, the dream spun
out of light, engulfed by static.
But still you’re there, faceless until
formation, and so many ugly things
you’ve given me without the words
to name them. I call them my hands.
I call them myopia. How without seeing
I know you’re there. How the moonless
sky beckons itself into clarity
and I’m nowhere near you, protected
by darkness and distance, yet light,
its own betrayal, still finds a way
to knife you behind my eyes.
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