Even from here, I’ve come to know you.
My kind disapproves of my interest—
they call me exoticist, colonizer.
You know better.
You, standing still in the garden
with an idle shovel leaned against your thigh,
entranced by the jays’ squawk, by their movements
as they carry sunlight on their wings
into the darkening elm boughs;
and you on the subway car,
regarding the frozen tunnels with sympathy,
with recognition of a familiar pressure, of mutual suffering,
as the train lights shove the dark forward….
Most of my kind, when they come,
take pleasure in blinding you,
in watching you fall to your knees.
But I am here to say Get used to the light.
