On the Oscillation of Light
I failed to discern the burning in my eyes
wasn’t sunscreen when I plunged into the ocean.
Such pretense, sans prescience:
I was blind before I knew it.
This isn’t the way we imagined living,
stars melting across our eyes,
arteries splashing neon fluorescence.
We imagined a sentence: an incarceration
of words & definitions.
I remember that I can’t see you
without photons bouncing off of you.
Even a shadow is an elbow of light.
It takes more than brightness to reach you.
From the basement, the kitchen
door sparks at the edges.
Everything else, black as teeth.
David Bankson lives in Texas. He was a finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem contest, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, Anti-heroin Chic, {isacoustic*}, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, FIVE:2:ONE Magazine, and others.
