A light that gives enough light to turn itself off by

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A light that gives enough light to turn itself off by.
This is how it is, unless you let it burn right down,
let the battery reach zero, and it always does
without announcement: choose the moment for the darkness
to envelop you, or watch the fire flicker, in and out
like the breath that stops and may resume, but also might not ever,
till the difference between day and night’s so small
that you no longer notice. Some do not want to be the frog
in the slowly cooling water, want to mix it with their blood
or turn on the resistor and give up resistance all at once.
For some the light switch is the last movement they have strength for
and they don’t want it to go to waste.

I picture you and I am quieted. You would your quietus make
in me. The snow lay thick around you, and like a soul
returned by accident to the same body, you found yourself
in charge of this mess as of every other one,
by your appointment, but not by your intention.

Somehow — I don’t know if this is normal — when I lie in bed
with my head on my wrist I feel it beating, this bird
trapped in my breast, lifting its wings and rising in its
tight infinite space, bright as when you close your eyes
and colours dance unbidden on the canvas, woven light.
The air it blows as with a living bellows through my tunnels
reminds me of my lightness, of my emptiness.
It makes a dull sound in my ear like someone striking
a low note on the piano on another floor, addicted
to the melody of sameness, like the faithful Grand whose manuscript
must burn. “Yet I remember all.” It pulled him through the night.
It’s tempting to believe that a cessation would release him,
would unstick the maddeningly simple song, or that the bird
is asking for unbound horizons, for its universe to keep expanding
as does ours, when we would rather be in ignorance
of what that means. The caged bird sings because it is a cage
and so inheres as I almost cannot. When lying on my back,
I see my stomach rise and fall, but also visibly the knocking
on the door, tapping on the tent as when we would go camping,
seeing the light move from within the thing to all around it
as the dawn approached, and putting our palms against the nylon
having heard that touch was needed to permit osmosis.
Where our fingers brushed, water entered, light flowed out,
equalizing elements, or so we had been given to believe.
Put then your hand on this resounding cavity at just the spot
where something on the inside’s stretching there to meet it.
Maybe will to live will flow between us. Maybe such osmosis,
trading sorrow for mature reflection, has already taken place
these times we’ve looked into each other’s eyes, said nothing.
Words after all are only turbulence, or only pebbles thrown
like inexpertly skipped stones that just disturb the surface
and may injure or cause damage where they land
tumbling into these internal empires of sand.

A light that burns down steadily, as the sun.
It slips as does all life around the corner, sometimes
barely waving, under cloud, sometimes though prolonging the goodbye
for many minutes. Your silence doesn’t scare me
like your downcast eyes. Why then do I need to speak?
I’m seeking equilibrium, I’m giving what I have to you,
as you have quietly been handing me your warmth.

It takes courage to stand still, and courage too to fall.
Courage is required to suffer, courage to reject the suffering.
Courage is what is needed day by day, and on the great occasions.
To say no, or to say yes; to burn or be extinguished;
to laugh or cry. To live. Every choice you have means facing it.
That is the hand dealt out. I understand. And I would understand.
But for this moment I will ask, I will ask sheepishly,
I will ask hopeless and awash with hope, ask for this moment
only. Only. Here at least one heart will beat.

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