8-14-96


I've got a little lightbulb for some sonnets;
Theme can funnel radiance from above,
Thus focus miscellany to an onyx
In the hand.  & when the theme is love

Night itself's a flood of luminescence;
More cannot be lit.  But is it wave
Or particle, now that flood is of the essence?
(Thought identifies, that arm can save.)

She speaks.  She serves.  She pets.  Her arts beget
A beach of days domestic.  Water pours
Itself on figured nutshells.  Nothing's set.
The door swings shut;  the ceiling flips to floor --

He throws a rock;  they eat just half their cake;
We cannot tell continuum from break.