Lucifer means "shining" -

Onslaught. The only word
for the mode of my conversion.
Darkness
through trees and over curbs,
never paused.
Night
laid its claim. I tried all the ways;
you can’t mask the night as a child.
Your eyes will widen, seeking light,
burdened with a sudden sense of sound,
of ripples and scutters and hissings.
I found laughter is the great ward of fear,
so the night humored me
with dancing bats and presences in space.

Even Arden would understand
why I now think of you at sunset.
He would see the colors seep from my face,
the light pricking a cornea,
a hair along the forearm raised,
details of gradual dormancy.
If you must be away from me,
I will be standing at sunset.

We were ruled by the whim of light.
Our tastes changed in the afternoon,
in the flattering four-o'clock sun:
strawberries and cream cheese on light toast,
darjeeling and mint stems,
that curled with envious grace
along your thumb.
On evenings with halved moons,
it was the bite of wasabi,
and raw fish, slivered on moist rice
as you fumbled with the prospect of our lovemaking.
You expected me to be blonde,
to tangle like a halo in your hands.
I expected your height to shadow me,
following like a humid front.
In our conceit, these pleasures were
emblems, like Miss Kelley's radiant gloves.
We were snow-blind to the literal translation.
Until your leaving.

Then the words became resistant.
Defiant, like a slow Sarandon gaze.
I looked for the kerning in my letters,
as if the spacing between words would break
and open
to some place with a dawn.

But the paper doesn't move.
And licking the stamp, again,
closes something. I have already fallen.
Perhaps this is penance,
or jealousy or greed.
Now I am relying on sound
to reach you,
in fear of all beings who live with foresight.





GLS
4.7.92