the dark, the dark; she cries into the brush translucent tears that filter a spectrum and in the morning everyone is laughing for the sake of effervescent dewdrops. daybreak is not where sight begins; there is the shadow and there is the person, and the shadow comes from the person and isn’t the person. they both stand on each other’s feet and they are each other’s ground, phantom reflections, broken by the sun like diamonds in a frenzy. she thinks that what the shadow is of the person is a familiarly outlined spill of water, something that just cannot be colored in, but really, from third perspectives, that’s all that strangers seem.
the night, the night; it pierces her with lonely ache and ghosts of things she cannot remember. (they tell her that snowflakes are frozen teardrops and her heart a tangle of weeds, she wills herself deaf, but they pull the aperture of her ear wider open.) she flies into the sunrise and morphs to spilt colors. but in the morning, she does not believe in the horizon. she aches now with light, with knowing.
she held a shadow for a compass; she never did learn of the distinction between night and day.
1. Back from touring south india (tanjavur/madurai/trichi) at last. photos here.