Light Objects A switch of light that sits like its Dimensions are times three; A rod of bright that inch by inch Rolls cross the table freely. Recall my own belongings and Remember not I own A thing of any that looks like this: A severed ray from morn. Suspended effulgence; a flash Frozen on a surface. A gleam like glass, a fulgor cast, A structure from formless. A funny gift it is to give A mortal without merit. Or is it dross to Sol, and I Its worth exaggerate? But if he really thought it be A scrap from sky to thrust Then why does he demand it back When day turns into dusk? The truth is that he loves to make The thing of which I note: The beam that takes a solid shape That I attempt to hold.
Jarad Bushnell is a data scientist who lives in Philadelphia with his wife and cat. When he’s not reading Dickinson, Poe, or Tennyson, he enjoys calisthenics, bird watching, and astronomy.
Grand Little Things 