Sometimes the light, a horse,
gallops into the room
and demands you surrender.
It paws the floor, snorts—and so you rise out of the low-lying
cloud of the self, the half-dreaming
wakefulness we call love,
and into the cool air of the real.
It shakes its mane impatiently,
rears and kicks, its beautiful body
demanding your attention,
pushing its way in. Not
that you're afraid, not exactly.
But it shines straight into your eyes.
And though the heart is small
and cramped, barely large enough to suit
your own wants, you retreat into a corner,
make do with less. The only
possibility when the world lifts its head
and light pours from its back
in quantities enough to drown you.