Where Does The Light Go, Lights Out
I am sharing this second draft of a poem in progress. I have
typed up the second draft from my handwritten first draft,
(I always write first drafts with my hand, organically, flowing
out through my arteries and flesh to my pen and onto paper).
THis second draft will accompany me to the lower patio
where I will sit and brood over it, and see if I want to
continue with it or trash it. MY PLAN is to share with you
tomorrow or the next day, the next draft(s), if there are any.
Where Does The Light Go — Lights Out
Like, the light falling through the trees of Paris
onto Hemingway’s face;
on the crests of splashing waves
out the window of Neruda’s home.
Where does the light go that was on
my brother Leonard’s face, yesterday?
You turn on the light switch and the room
fills with light — turn off the light and the
light disappears — where did the light go?
Yesterday’s breath, echo of my voice asking
the waitress for lemon for my water —
the thought of how best to plant the aspen trees
where will the light go? Where will the light go
that shines on Lenny’s newborn calf that’s looking
up towards the house, as we gently thumb closed