A long time afraid of the filigree of light, what you imagine to be the wing of a bird cleaving your face, air on your eyes before you can shut them. It's the only thing you see. It's the kind of wick you cannot lick your fingers to put out. --- the filigree / of light

a layer of birds when the beetles hurry through dry grass hiding pieces of light they have stolen

the light moving at its own speed

i let summer take over the house for however long it needs --- making their way from meal to meal across the sky --- it’s not quite true that every car should stop while a poem is in operation but try to tell me it wouldn’t be nice