The light that shuts is still the light—
which is what? The bulb, the socket,
the meeting of wires and current—
the switch, the Tinkerbelle faceplate—
the concentrated heat, the shine—
the cloud of rays that radiates—
the objects upon which they bounce—
the eyes that absorb all those glints—
the mind that somehow pronounces
-gh- as a silent switch making lit
long? How do we divide what counts
as off or on? The room goes dark
while outside comet-eyed cats pounce
on each other with fearsome yowls.
Now the light is on for those cats—
and for the bugs under the hose.The veils move like nothing we know.