I look for light catching tops
of waves, whether moon or sun
breaking on beaches, quiet times
in old libraries, a chair, by leaking
gas fire, the radio gets morse code
bleeps of scrambled short wave
static from starclouds, galaxies,
past and future, and next, you tell
me it's all real, not a figment or
invention, and that, my friend,
means that today is the day
the light whips through all this
grey matter
and silence