The light behind the comer of that building.
The chestnut.
The pattern of bricks in the wall.

In that house
your life quivered.

It’s there yet,
though not the body you wore.

There, at the foot of the stairs,
where you paused on your way to the door.

That moment of not knowing if you’re able
for the darkness of a form against the light.

The rectangle, framing the world.
The light behind the figure,

streaming in.