The taste of living can be so, so sweet

when the dew of sound shines under the bulb,
like late fireflies rushing to the meet
or constrained fingers that can scrape the curb:
The slow heft of brown wings leaves a shadow,
a trace of movement, a placement replaced,
a treatise tainted by the black shade-eye,
a ration of loved-ones tossed and disgraced:
I'd follow with my finger, but the shine
rejects my vision, reflects my sight's aim –
which, no doubt, would fade into the supine
fragments of the glass I built out of frame:
Pure is the shade who can pray himself home
after hours of bleeding gray sea foam.
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