I was thinking of light when the daylight went thin, something moved in the trees, then folded within. A face like mine, or a face I once knew, one eye in shadow, one turning blue. We carried a fire, we carried a name, somebody vanished, somebody changed. I don’t remember who lifted the stone— only the eyes, and the light on the bone. The sea keeps a line where the blue disappears, the dead keep their silence, the living their years. A face for a moment, a room left somewhere— some things disappear, some things stay near. Out past the shoreline, out of our sight, sometimes the image lives longer than light. A king in a portrait, gold at his side, a man underneath it with nowhere to hide. The painter caught velvet, the title, the name, something went missing outside of the frame. I looked at his mouth, then looked at the sea, the light had moved slightly, or maybe just me. For one little second the distance was gone— then only the canvas, the water, the dawn. The sea keeps a line where the blue disappears, the dead keep their silence, the living their years. A face for a moment, a room left somewhere— some things disappear, some things stay near. Out past the shoreline, out of our sight, sometimes the image lives longer than light. Sky into water, water into sky, a thousand small colors escaping the eye. Phosphene burning where nothing had been, a little false light at the edge of the seen. The tide took a shadow, the shore kept the glow, the same disappearing, the same afterglow. Whole years went missing, one window stayed bright, one face came back in a different light. I couldn’t remember the room or the year, only the shape of what still felt near. Something moved once at the edge of the trees, something looked back from a century’s sleep. Then the water went dark, and the picture went white— nothing was there but the remainder of light. The sea keeps a line where the blue disappears, the dead keep their silence, the living their years. A face for a moment, a room left somewhere— some things disappear, some things stay near. Out past the shoreline, out of our sight, something long vanished lives longer than light.
