One of the blinds is crooked,
the other one is straight.

Both of them let in ambiguous amounts of light.

In their anti-purpose, shapes are made:
A coffee table, a rug, a pencil sharpener.
And I think these things belong.
But already the light has moved out of my eyes.
A nebulous cloud follows my hand and valleys
to the point.

The shadows are reflections.
imprints of coasters and a mirror and cereal box
that counter its presence on the table.

If the darker, flatter path weren’t there
perhaps the scattered handles wouldn’t exist.

And perhaps they won’t exist,
is what they are telling me,
what the light reads to me slowly
as the sky sinks my tired gaze into the furniture,

that because the room withstands the passing of the day
someone will deconstruct
the shapes and take them
from this room.


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