“Maybe just-born babies cry because tiny eyes hurt in the light.
Previewers say, in the end, we walk a tunnel toward the light.

Trees arch over our city street, dark and hooded.
We cannot see sidewalk cracks. Beware of headlights.

No God stops by in Bergman films, even for a visit.
Stark eyes appear and landscapes, shades of barren light.

I paint rooms in earthtones: caramel, mahogany, coffee.
You zip open blinds, complain, “We need more light!”

You are Yang, I am Ying; or are we a combo, Yingly&Yangly?
A routine, a duo, a slapstick couple tap dancing in cold moonlight.

In a cornstalk maze, we can lose ourselves without a view.
Like old faces puzzling reflections in nursing home window light.

Spaghetti strings overflow gutters, weave shrubs and tree trunks.
So wild and gaudy, who put up those hyperactive holiday lights?

Ladies in the church draped lost rosaries on St. Anthony’s fingers.
Without paying a penny, a friend and I set on fire every vigil light.

Let’s not do the pale of suffering. And no blazing pyres, please.
Lighten up, little one, you will find your way in the given light.

This article appears in August 16 2010.