11 April 2016

The Cost of Light



I look west
across Lake Butte des Morts.
Fourteen rays of light break through a cloud.
Why do I count them?
Would Phanaeus be foolishly gratuitous to give fifteen?
Would thirteen have left Helius a hording miser?
Only one born under the sign of the making of titanic turbines
and the splitting of the smallest things
would be so first inclined to
count the cost of light.

A ring-billed gull,
perhaps here too early this year,
works hard against the wind
to remain in one place.
Moving to remain unmovable.
How she struggles for stillness!

I cannot count the waves.
My eyes a crude tool.
This crest the same as that one,
and while moving, they too don’t seem to be going anywhere.
But I do discern a meter,
which is a start.

Where the cloud piercing fires of Phanaeus hit water,
ray to wave,
there is a bleeding of color,
unnamable,
not numerable.
Simply there, but also moving. Alive.
A portal
to my own uncounting.



I laugh as I think, 
you smart lake,
yes,
life is found in the low places.













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