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Walking through the House with a Candle
I'm deep-wading in the pupil of my life. The rooms slide around compass-like, shadows magnetically repelled from my lit hand. Each blank wall reveals the candle's lip-a dark ledge on which the room rests. Outside, the flash-veins of lightning like sudden facts have all but passed. What's left is a steady black rain of sound- malleable: hollowed against the deck, fingertipped on brick, indiscernible in the mowed grass. My anticipation of life resuming- the snap-to of the radio, the lights sterilizing the room of all inversions - stashes time on the blacked-out shelves. In the lull, the house has changed: the nail-holes in the living room have deepened like beer-belly navels, the table holds its balance on the thin legs of its Siamese twin, and the floor's scattered papers have swallowed their ordered print. The bay window reflects my light back into this shifting space, of which I am for the moment 195