This light, speechless
and without a name,
is dismantling the day –
quiet as a door left
unopened by the wind,
folding itself unhurried
into idle birds, this
origami light, unmaking
muscle and design,
is not for the hand
upon the world unwashed,
the stains of lunch
and a book unread –
this light is taking up the dust,
and the best of the bed,
the chair and chest, giving
its indifference gradually to
whatever is dead on the sill
and the soft muttering of birch
leaves awaiting twilight.
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