The blue square of light
in the window across the street
never goes dark-
the cathodes, the cordage, the atoms
working the hem of dusk-
traveling past the cranes and the docks
and the poisoned oyster beds,
the trees loaded with radium,
colors that sound like guns,
red pock-pock red and the sea yellow up,
yellow down-
the blue hour, the waiting.
In the hospitals
I was the light of the TV
I rustled past the guard
I put my hand over your mouth
I shoved your face
into the pillow-
I came and came through the sodium streets
past the diners, a minister idly turning his glass,
service stations, gas, cars sharp in the light.
How long will the light go on?
Longer than you. Still you ought to live like a city,
rich and fierce at the center.
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