I stand inside closed doors I
might throw wide

but only I
ever emerge

while you
in any light

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