Then Her Eyes

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.