October Walk With the Interior Gal
She’d read an early draft, called OCTOBER LIGHT,
and, You’re right, she said, it’s not the light itself
we see, but things illuminated. Except it’s heat
you want, not light; to kindle; from candle; warmth
for a night. There’s light and the endless craving of light
to see itself, its shadow: your dead of winter
is my summer afternoon. The plum, though, is a plum,
I said, by virtue of its light–but light itself is made,
she said, of light-eviscerated plums: wait your turn,
you’ll turn to light. We were almost home.
I got out my keys. Ask yourself, she said, is this the moment
before it rains or last week’s evaporation?
Looking up I saw the dark-dusted clouds. The storm
or the morning after the storm? The old lock is fussy.
To get the key to catch, you have to fiddle it as you turn.
I fiddled it as I turned. The door creaked open, heat
poured out, and turning I could see it was now raining.