As winter's cruel late
afternoon light
floods each poorly curtained window,
fills and
somehow
dims the kitchen—a gradual void
of value,
pace, and direction
leaves you
with not even your
own distinct shadow.
Darkness.
This must be how planets come together.
This is your cue
to simplify feeling,
consolidate meaning,
and wrap your core up tight in their patinas.
You have layers now. You're still you—but
encrusted.
Gradually you are moved
to boil water,
to light imaginary cosmic cigarettes
straight off the finicky gas burner,
to start practicing
smaller
smaller,
ever-smaller
reorientations toward perfection.
