All the lights are out save one--
the shadows shape themselves in a new fashion.
A chill of recognition,
a buzz that bizzles through the dead lights.
There is an old story
that hides underneath the way the light shines differently--
there is a more honest look to the room.
There is another place, somewhere much farther away,
where all of the lights are always on,
where the illumination (while insincere) covers all surfaces
and does not leave vague shadows
or murky ideas.
I looked in the window of that place, once,
and saw that it was more beautiful than words
but I love my half-lit room
so I went back and stayed there
sitting in the least-lit corner
watching the new shadows.