THE EVIDENCE OF LIGHT

THE EVIDENCE OF LIGHT
—for Jan Bogaerts

When the film in the camera
winds down to the last few exposures
what remains are small pieces of the self
scattered across the globe;
there is less of me returning home each time.
The concept—elusive like the notion
of the camera stealing small pieces of us—
inevitably thins the soul
till it becomes translucent as isinglass.
They say travel toughens the heart,
but the heart is another matter—
each time I begin to believe love is a thing of the past,
some man crosses my path
and I am a fallen Magdalen weeping at his feet,
the carpet of my hair hiding my shame.

Two men contemplate the acute angle of the sun
piercing the dome of City Hall.
There's something of that time of day
when everything is crepuscular in notion,
I am haunted by ordinary light and shadow.
I cannot escape the clutches of a dream
as if reality bent itself towards sleep,
toward the void, the depths from within
where reside broken pieces of the dream
while the truly dead wander the parameters of this house.

Ask me why this matters and I will tell you
I have seen Jesus living in a desk drawer
in this abandoned house full of empty rooms
while those statistics sleeping in Market Street doorways
roll up their sleeping gear each morning
with the sacramental tenderness of priests readying for mass.
What of the thousands dying of the dreaded acronym
no one wants to name?
The homeless spread shrouds over their belongings.

Reduced to numerical equations                                                                    

the layer of humanity stretched thin as ice

at the altar of the streets, prays for oblivion like all the rest.

It is so silent, reminiscent of the many dead, with more to come:

What of their stories? Who will write them, who will listen?

You say they've gained the wisdom and clarity

usually reserved for the aged, and they are not yet old.

The glitter of the city pushes back the invading darkness.

Cavities of desire and grief implode into this room

as we gather the evidence of light for the proconsul.

We need arms to hold us, to stop time—

not just the camera defining angles of light.

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