You do more than float.
You perform a hanging feat behind
the skin of my thinning lids, jetting
and slowing as I scan
that field of vision, catching
something to stare at, out a window,
maybe the sun or moon, or another face, smiling
with nice teeth, or my own reflection.
Ghostly blind spots like little animals.
You do more than loiter, bored. It seems
you know your purpose if I can
give you enough time to find your way
across the long black. The loneliness.
You’re not round. I don’t know what color
to call you. Some enlivened sparkle from nothing.
You’re not really there. You help me
keep my eyes clamped shut for a little longer
than I would were I not a believer.
-Larry Thacker
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