I talk about light. Light so heated up it could burn you, but frozen in its stillness. Light flooding the room with transparencies, sights and shadows of things.
Light withdrawn from the sun in droves with the elasticity of wheat stalks. Talking light that has crossed the clouds and washes away its blank vapour.
Summer light, spring light, season's end light. Light in blocks, and light in spears; waves of light, and crispy flakes of light.
Lights that take their turn, and shy spells that cry.
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