What to make of this
rapt attention to
the light streaming
between window shades?
A bit of unfiltered plasma
billions of years
in the making making
it to these sofa cushions
in the hush afternoon
of fingers and pages.
Reflection not shadow
catches glinting eyes
as if to intimate
a babbled recognition
reaching for the brilliance
from whence we came?
But that is too facile
as if it could be known
what speaks through light
with silent words.
How else do we know
what eyes are seeking
without this fumbled
grasping for air
we think is there
until the slant shifts
and we close our eyes
unsettled, resist.
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Joshua Keiter 