If it is the simplest of things that fill our lives with poetry, why does this lamp not speak to me? Its threaded shade is true enough, capable, illuminated, and yet its shine falls short, is flat, is melted in the air before me, before I could have seen it. And if I swim in these my thoughts, if JOYCE was right, if FREUD was right, if this stream should lead me somewhere fruitful (paradise? presumption!), how could I know? How, how, how could I know?
This reflection of light in the window (there are no mirrors here) seems scoffing, seems dark and doubtful. Even the reflection of the light looks unsure of itself, doubled again because of the double glass panes.
No: rather, it is instead
the secretive green
of the bottle beside it
that glistens,
content in its elegance,
truer to its subtle nature,
holding its complement,
the red.
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