LIGHT

The light in the window
That suddenly goes out,
As if a vein of light had been tied and cut,

The light that suddenly pours in
When the sun, in its time,
Overwhelms the sky

Too late
For the shut eyes,
Tired of watching

Those solid shafts of light,
Waiting for something
To come down the gold carpet.

Instead, the stone angels fly,
The pigeons walk,
Renouncing their wings.

When the light pours in everywhere
Like flood water

And the light roils and steams,
And the man stands
With his back against the light.
He is gigantic and primordial.

This is the black light
Of somewhere else,
Bleeding into this,

The harsh white light which reduces
A woman's face
To nostrils, a mouth,

The eyes, black pits.

The high, great ray of light
In which a man sits
As if he were chosen,

For grace of for execution,
The white snow
That enters the room
And fills it
With white, dead flakes of light,

The bed sinking,

The chairs sinking,
The light thickening,
The air solid.

The light on the page
Glares it to blankness
As if life had never happened,

As if the future
Had obliterated it all
Before it was over,

As if the future
Had taken the book back
To use it again.

The sweet, sweet innocent light of mornings!
The slow, sad dimming of light in the evenings,
The glowing of green things in the gold light

Before the first door opens.
The purple and yellow mouths which open
With the light and close with its dimming,

The sweet warm light
Wich sweetens the soot-covered plaster,
Entering like spring air

Through the still sealed up windows.

The dead, chalk light
Behind the marble statue of the woman
Leaning back as if reeling,

As if in great pain,
Her limbs contorted, eyes closed,
Shrouded in plastic

As if time had stuck to her,
One breast bared,
As if it had a life of its own

As if it still waited for someone,

The light deepening the folds of the stone
Under the thin shroud,

An unknown heaviness,
Her arm,
Helpless and heavy at her side.

The arbitrary fall of the light
Which is lordly,
Which picks out a pattern of wood,

Which burnishes it until it seems
Solid as brass,
Until it seems safe from the fire.

The party goes on
And the light strikes the window.
Tha man dancing behind it

Is dancing on black air.
He is ten stories up,
Less than any moth

Who can fly at the pane.

While in the cathedral
The dark priests
Moving like shadows,

Over their shadows,
Light which bisects the face
As if the soul

Had risen to the surface,
And the light shapes into arches
As if it have fallen,

As if it wanted to get back to the far heaven
From which it had come.

Rain,
And lights on the pavement.
Fog

And the street lights
Gathering the light into halos,
Bright light on her blouse,

Turning the cloth to light,
Before the light
Falls on her face

And her face is stolen
Replaced with this one,
Its fixed smile,

Which will always stay just as it is.

Light in the forest,
Light in the trees,
Light on the water,

Light on the tall stones with their names,
Light on the pillow,
Light on the sheet,

Light on the bed
From which someone has risen,
Light behind the city

Like glad tidings coming fast,
Light behind the door
And the dark figure oulined behind it,

Light on the mausoleum skyline,
Light on the dead eyes,
Light like slabs of concrete,
Light under the door,
Light through the crack in the door,
As if it would open it,

Light on the vast white sand.