In here is the light
falling on a bed
and on a book left open
at a chapter you might read
a light you could put
your fingers into
testing it like a wound
to see how much
you could bear

there’s the light
still low still crisp
in the park near Erpel
where the single blokes
and old limping men
would walk the paths
and look a light too hot
so you would go home
lie on your bed cool down
and touch yourself

there is the light here
the spring sun pouring
through orange curtains
and dimmed a little
by their double cloth
where you lie and relax
in this heap of pages
in its twilight and think
of how out of the world
one feels when one opens
the sluices.