Even though you’ve turned on every light,
you know it’s a lie.
You know that bulbs
only last a hundred hours,
and never reach every corner,
or outside the windows.
Look out the window now.
Look at the streetlight.
Nothing exists more lonely than that.
Look at the corner the light hits
and the dark universe enclosing it.
They said nothing was faster than light
but light came second.
That’s why it’s romantic
to be the streetlight,
the last lamp on the bedside table,
the candle burning on the desk,
to know you’ll never beat it back,
only hold it off a little,
until you burn out.
Still, you say,
Look at this corner,
Look through the night.
Sure, the darkness always wins.
There’s nothing to be done about that.
I looked out
into the dim morning
and saw the lit corner,
sun coming up just behind it.
That’s got to count for something.