I stand inside closed doors I
might throw wide
but only I
ever emerge
while you
in any light
abide
like the man who sees
pitch dark inside, reads
Bukowski in bed, in him
you startle me
Euclid thought the eye
beamed out its rays
to intercept the world
how, then, did you hide
his sun?
bent-in scatter, deeps
he doled to brain, dispatched
pitter-patter, our patterns
in an eye—
the sky
we think we net
I hear your laughter