the shadows on the wall, black and bottomless.
Light is the reckoning of the real: the fast trip
to reflection. The unflattering morning mocks
flawed skins and faulty thinking. It demands
more than a caress. It laughs at clumsy fumbling
and shines on our time so cruelly. There is no
compassion with the day. It cannot love even
like sex. It cannot move a body to its moment
of enlightenment nor charge the mind toward
the Other. Her buttocks are bare by his book. His eyes
are cast to the floor where the shape of his confrontation
is rectangular. He is a tired man with all this living, yet
love lies at his back, and his pages remain open.