Interiors

The history of shadows, a longing
for brightness to bring through your
eyes shapes and their

belongings: our differences, entwined.
It is evening. Wind breathes in the trees and

through your hands at the piano, returning
speech to its origin, clouds, the moon,
burning wood. November, dying.

How often I fail through lack of words.

Beauty in form. Not to create but as in
respiration, to share, to accept and
return without thought. In and out,

the days reciprocate. White, black. Figures
waiting in darkness for light to come bear them.