With all that is in it -
the live oak in the dimness
pours itself into the dark sheets of night
that close around the deeper corners of habit.
I will remember, or at least I will not forget -
yes, yes, it is the way the light rests on the leaves,
but in a small unsettling. It is not the light
that joins and becomes, like the light
that feels its way into the face of a tulip.
This is polar, it is water on oil.
The light slips in droplets,
pooling on the pavement beneath.