Ethics of Light
Waking up and it’s still night
in the morning.
My eyes still haven’t cleared
and a beat still lives
in my body with a dream.
There is peace, the boy finds,
in lying still where no one can see.
Your spirit wobbles and hops along,
from time to time shaking the
body intensely, a reminder
of what’s still inside.
When the creatures come out
I will move with them,
but they are a separate shrieking
organism from me.
Night still turns to morning haze,
and then the weight sinks in,
slips in, discretely and deliberately
crawling, creeping, whispering fingers
into your head that this is
real life, still breathe and one
must touch to feel to work.
Still, haze turns to light.
Smoky, sticky, smothering light,
light that pierces and pervades,
stabs and stains,
haze turns to light.