IX

 

Legs loom like lit laterns,
or apricot trees

Their empty white roads lead through the black teak and silk silence
Of a ruined theatre.

Light refines itself
at her highest points — her tips
Reimagines itself as embroidered insects
(Or are the alive ones more delicate?)
She has yet to decide

If the earth feels warm or cold,
lit only by the light or our departing eyes.