Light isn’t like this except on winter days,
when cold thins the walls against the bright surround.
Gallery lighting invades my reading room;
it seeks me even in the center hall —
kaleidoscopic shards spinning out of fields
flat with snow and filled with Greeks who train at me
their polished shields and glittering bits of mirrors.
(If surgery’s required, can the patient tell them
to turn down the lights?)
When I was small,
I was never afraid of the dark
but of the flashlight
that found me in the closet, and behind,
the bright menace of a comforting smile.
Available to purchase:
Publisher: Redgreene Press, Pittsburgh, PA
“Elegant work, direct, unaffected, eloquent and passionate.”
– John Engels, 1931-2007