Shadows and Light
He was wiry and dark and spoke in a low voice.
At the time, it was a dangerous world, still is,
I guess, the line between dark and light remains,
a way of seeing without looking, to not be seen
looking, that what is sold as truth, like shadows,
behaves as the light that falls upon puppets scatters.
Except that there is menace in the walls, in the line
of trees off to the side, and as he talked
of what had become of his world, the bare feet,
untended wounds and the loose change in open palms
and how dreams dreamed by babies shrink
along with their bodies, his voice tightened
and his eyes became clearer, and I thought,
the brighter the light, the darker the shadows.
In the modern world, my sky is blue and spotless
as fall stumbles into winter, and in the modern
world, a multitude of models run in computers
that tell me, somewhere in the south Atlantic
Medea shakes her tresses and the ocean breeze
tumbles as the down on her skin raises.
The models show it in their rain of numbers.
Where once I wondered at red skies and the day become,
Delphi in the silicon chips foretell a storm.
Its not enough, these little talks we have
from miles apart,
even if I can hear the pause
in your breath remembering
or maybe holding back, so much
for being considerate, the politeness
that keeps us from frightening
each other like strangers colliding
turning a sidewalk corner,
sorry, sorry, without looking
at each other's eyes like we do,
or did, the drive home after last
we were together, the stoplight
at the intersection suddenly liquid
and real and final my hands
and feet landing unthought
the turn signal louder
than I had ever heard it ticking.
Its not enough, these little talks
we have from far away.