12-03-2016, 08:10 AM
It's the season of walls, firm
as universal laws, with the perforation
of doors opening briefly like portals.
It's the season of windows—a candle
in the windowsill signals
that something sentient still lives inside.
Headlights, strange and sharp in the dark,
bore into the hulk of morning,
battling through its murky black.
There's curtain-cloaked lamplight glowing
through windows and frosty cars in driveways,
but people are planets of distant stars:
probabilities—inferences
from the way the light bends around them,
how it warps and curves.
It's reasonable to deduce
that the movement of cars cannot be random,
that the lamplight returns bearing promise and purpose.
as universal laws, with the perforation
of doors opening briefly like portals.
It's the season of windows—a candle
in the windowsill signals
that something sentient still lives inside.
Headlights, strange and sharp in the dark,
bore into the hulk of morning,
battling through its murky black.
There's curtain-cloaked lamplight glowing
through windows and frosty cars in driveways,
but people are planets of distant stars:
probabilities—inferences
from the way the light bends around them,
how it warps and curves.
It's reasonable to deduce
that the movement of cars cannot be random,
that the lamplight returns bearing promise and purpose.