If when just seeing you,
saw a flash of light by your chin
the size of a tangerine,
that was bright, but not
blown out, transparent;
does the light lilt?
You were a seventeen year old
and like belt and suspenders
doubled up
on hands in the pockets,
light blue jeans and a white tee-shirt
with the sleeves rolled up a little bit
to show where the bicep
comes in and goes back
out again.
Hats had to sit jauntily
on your head. However
dead to light you were,
insensate to facial expressions,
fictional; even.
Dancing up the woodwork
to the eaves,
everything is encrusted with
hand-chiseled scrollwork
of celtic knots,
labyrinthine braids,
parallel lines and abrupt stops.
And then looking into the closet.
Some places are thick with clothes
like in Wardrobe; but some are bare wall—
flash.
All of the things are behind it,
because it is maybe not
actually there, or
actually there by being in the head
and not the closet.
I am feeling faint,
however the flash feels.
This is not a metaphorical closet.
