There was a light that burned,

a shifting, settled light – the kind

that changes the room from one

kind of good to a better one.

The moths played in the shade

like winged marionettes parading

their playful dance never far

from the light but choosing

to stay stuck where it only shines

to amuse and titillate, not

where it shines to tease out

shadows and contours of faces.

Above, on a hungry ceiling dwell

other specters, images drowning

in the goodness of this moment.

Seated apart but facing each other

are the comrades of long-lived kindness

still working through the politics of light.