There’s something distrustful
about sunlight. I know I’m in the minority here—
but the way it burns our retinas, shines
our hair, lifts the gold mane of our arms—
we must be blind.
The bus fills with a sulphur light
this morning
and this tired fat mat becomes
beautiful, shining, and I swear he has wings
tucked somewhere in his gym bag.
I look around and see it everywhere—
an impossible gossamer:
the driver’s coffee steams smooth
as a silk scarf
into the air we breathe.
It’s beautiful, of course, but—
maybe the return of clouds will offer promises
we can keep, ground we can easily
stand on. A clear way to gauge each other.
Copyright © Emily Wall 2007
