In a 50-watt shadow I am writing this poem.
The shadow of this poem leans on me like a wave.
Waves cast shadows on each other just as trees
cast shadows on each other, just as an owl casts
its net-shaped shadow on the ground. The ground
is still moist, the shadows are long and constant.
Last night, my shadow vanished only to reconstitute
as I exited the ice-cream parlor, just as the wind
will sometimes come from across town, sometimes
from right behind me. Some shadows are darker
than others. Many objects rarely cast self-shaped
shadows but a pile of them will cast a pile-shaped shadow.
I never know if my nose is in shadow. The nose may
cast a doubtful shadow as one enters a bathroom.
The shadow of a heart is an unlovely shadow
that children should never see. Shadows do not
tangle, nor break. X-rays are shadows in disguise.
In the shadow of a match I am rewriting this poem.
Some shadows have shadows that are like hair
on the body or the slope of a roller coaster.
