Ring
The back of my left hand presses
pleasantly into a cotton blue pillowcase. Through my squinted
eyelid I see
soft edges of a flattened crescent that must have been
cut from back-lit clouds: it is that white –
almost pure light. This
light-shape
sits on my gently upturned finger. I can feel it
cool
in the narrow hollow
where finger meets palm
a dove
hiding itself
in the cleft of the rock
and this
shape lights
the sphere of my sight, making peripheral
the cool, dark masses of the furniture and shadows that
inhabit the room where
I’m lying.
