Caravaggio’s Light


Picture the dirt

             rising at your feet

in the chiaroscuro

of a midnight rerun.

                                                               Am I dreaming?

Looking for a wall

that will not return

to its memory of pebbles.

and from the systole   diastole  very rhythm

of your being

a fugue,



lulls another mystery

                       into orbit.

The diaspora of your emotions

rebelling against   silence’s



wandering through

empirical deserts

                  in a final act of defiance

for what must come.



           But would you lie


If the one you love

or think you love

was in the next room?

                                  Do you know the language

              of your lover’s dreams?

Will you or he or she hear the crickets

over the escalating virus

of influences

that fill our lives?

And the crickets

                jackrabbits of sound

shooting through every atom

belonging to you

as good belongs to everyone.

The timeless always


                               the coffee finished brewing

                                               grown cold

                                               the Ab-Flex saleswoman

                                               stomach more solid than gold

offers you something

for the waiting

               your wandering

past green rusted dumpsters

          rotted pears

                    gutted cantaloupe

pillaged Edens

sticky paradise of the yellow-jack,


                    strobe from flickering streetlight

& could these be the gallows

      of fallen angels?

A wet orange glow falls

over you, waiting


                                               look under your boot-soles

                                               you need someone to convince you

                                               to surrender.




Manifold silences

break the legs

of what we know.

What road leads

to the sun

and how much time

do we have?

to recognize the prayers

            in our fragile language?

What can I say

to instigate the lovers

to be


that I may be


               that (light


  over St. Paul)

has not already spoken.


                               that musicians

(gaze their translucent centuries

their twilight answers)

haven’t already whispered back

to you


in a blade’s flicker-

ing instant

                               on that beach

                               that heard the final


                               on your breath

                               merge with sunlight’s

                               sinking hour.