the light gets so
smooth and even
that it seems to
caress every
detail from the world.
It's actually
quite strange to see;
suddenly,
every grass blade,
every toddler in the park,
every old car's patina—
which should be
ringing out with its
own special clarity—
takes the shape
of a wave; a faint pattern
in wood.
No object is separate,
and so, no thought
is possible.
But it's over in an instant
as the sun
changes angles,
and the moment
disappears, as it ought
(as it must)
into the steady,
fraught, and
atomized sequence
of my routine
reflections and habitual
to-do lists.
