Poem with Radiometer

Four vanes pierced by a spindle,
a cotillion in black and white.
Moving in atmosphere lighter than air,
one searches out the other moving away.

As inside the glass, outside. You move slowly
through me, and light bounces from one skin
to the other, a kind of feint. Once the light warms
the dark, to kick at the shadows becomes a function
of how we breathe.

But what muscles the endless spin?
Dark hides from light as light pursues it.
You knuckle your eyes in disbelief, saying it’s dangerous
to stand this close to such a rapidly rotating truth.

If this was an experiment, it could be extrapolated
to metaphor. We think: it takes opacity to capture light.
We think: if only the clouds did not erase the sun,
we could quantify forever.
Still, the sun sets on even the darkest days.

Fading Light

Light

Late sun smoothes her quilted skin,
her cheeks rise under her eyes.
She’s silent in the car, squints
at streetlights flaring up along the road.

She says nothing when I feed her,
but I see how she tracks the glint
that bounces off the spoon.

When downtown smog smudges
her bedroom windowpane, I begin
to draw the drapes. She tugs at my wrist.
It’s not enough, she says, but let it in.