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.