Not the flute-song light of April,
of skittish creak waves or
the heart-in-throat jitter
of aspen leaves.
When you peel the husk back.
Allspice, cinnamon, unwashed hair,
cloves pinned to over-ripe oranges,
sweat of yesterday's labour.
Doesn't turn around though it can feel the eyes at its back.
Nor is it November's slag-light, the thing said
by a lover that cannot be taken back and now sits
between them broken-winged and awkward.
Not light of the thin-cough after.
Inward light --
viscous magma, lamp in a night window,
light of a thought you can't yet say, blood, embers
through the seams of an old wood-stove. Light that invites,
A thick-tongued drunken prophet, light
that spills long-shadows at your feet as if to slur.
It knows how to come to grips with the darkness
that is coming, but it's not going to say.