In the middle of taking a Facebook quiz
(which damned soul are you? Everyone hopes for
Il Miglior Fabbro, of course) I pause to
pull the curtain aside.
Light pours from the white wall opposite.
Light pours from the top of the window, where the sun
finds flaws in the glass and rushes through,
overwhelming the silica levies; light rises
from the blinding sill, light courses
through my phantom, fading skin and makes my bones
burn like white phosphor.
At night, among the old yellow headlights,
a pair of new ones, blue-white as Vega, rise,
blasting my night vision, turning me sightless,
making me old in a splintered second.
And when I fumble
into the refuge of the darkroom
I find the floor has gone, the tiles fallen away:
and below me is only the endless glory
of uncountable clustering stars.