This light has no logic.
It heats up tinted
images of you wrapping
around the walls 

inside my solar
of make believe. No outside
truth will seep through
to stain your well-defined 

face. The moment talked about,
its contracting destination
point, hangs 

in suspension. We 

don’t get there
from here. And that word
I meant to say, but
didn’t dare, is the only way 

to arrive at your timbre. It’s up
there too, with its swinging “y”
tail making an underline
exclamation beneath 

its other three
letters. They’re up
there to whip subtle
movements off 

their hinges. Big,
bold, block pronouncements
too heavy not to fall
eventually.