1904

LIGHT

What is the point of addiction
Is a question that misses the point
Or rather makes a house of air
And light a house of cards, or bars
Of ice and rain. The point is
Some feelings are below sea level.

Light gets through the viscid skin
Of the ocean, the difference
Between blood and newsprint
Is that one is the medium the other
The burning wire of our mornings.
Years go by, we don't speak of them.

I know several thousand glittering
Bits of what-it-is about you, food,
And what else keeps me going. Grit
Tumbles these bits, the grinding
Gears of idle joy, turns them into
Necklaces I sell on the street.

On a sunny day my table looks good,
Even someone late for work might stop
To see all the purple facts lined up.