Against the Late Light

He lifts a hand against the falling gold,
not to refuse it—only dull its edge.
The room is mostly shadow, denim, old
breath held in timber, dusk along the ledge.

Through glass, the split light falters on his skin.
At the left margin, a bruised prism clings,
as though the pane had tried to let day in
and kept one broken feather from its wings.

His face stays turned towards what hurts to see.
The nose-ring holds one hard, unsleeping spark.
Even the dark leaves certain things in fee:
a wristbone, jawline, green caught in the dark.

Light is no mercy. Still, it finds the face
and leaves that bent bright shard beside the glass.